iii 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


TAYLOR,  Bert  Leston,  author;  b.  Gosh- 
en,  Mass.,  Nov.  13,  1866;  s.  A.  O.  and  Kath- 
erine  (White)  .T. ;  ed.  New  York  City  pub. 
schs.  and  Coll.  City  of  New  York;  m.  Mans 
field,  Mass.,  Nov.  16,  1895,  Emma  Bonner. 
Engaged  in  journalism  until  recently,  now 
on  staff  of  Puck.  Author:  The  Well  In  the 
Wood,  1904  B6;  The  Log  of  the  Water 
Wagon  (with  W.  C.  Gibson),  1905  C35;  Mon 
sieur  D'en  Brochette  (in  collaboration), 
1905;  also  booklets  The  Bilioustine  and  The 
Book  Booster,  1901  L29.  Address:  Cos  Cob, 
Conn. 


UNDER  THREE  FLAGS 


\  J  ^ 

B!  L.^AYLOR^AND  A.  T.  THOITS. 


CHICAGO   AND   NEW   YORK: 

RAND,  McNALLY  &  COMPANY 

MDCCCXCVI. 


THE  NEW  YORK 
PUBLIC  LIT.'  ^ 


TIL)), 


A    PRIZE    STORY 


In  THE  CHICAGO   RECORD'S  series  of  "Stories  of  Mystery. 


UNDER    THREE    FLAGS 


B.  L.  TAYLOR  AND  A.  T.  THOITS. 


(This  story  —  out  of  816  competing  —  was  awarded  the  THIRD  PRIZE  in 
THE  CHICAGO  RECORD'S  "$30,000  to  Authors"  competition.) 


Copyright,  1896,  by  B.  L.  Taylor  and  A.  T.  Thoits. 


PS 


UNDER  THREE   FLAGS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"OVER  THE  HILLS  AND  FAR  AWAY." 

«. 

"No;  I  am  not  tired  of  life.  Who  could  be  on  such  a 
day?  I  am  weary  simply  of  this  way  of  living.  I  want 
to  get  away — away  from  this  stagnant  hole.  It  is  the 
same  dull  story  over  and  over  again,  day  after  day,  world 
without  end,  amen!" 

"Would  you  be  a  bit  more  contented  in  any  other 
spot?" 

"I  think  so.  I  cannot  believe  that  mankind  in  general 
is  so  selfish,  so  hypocritical,  and,  worst  crime  of  all,  so 
hopelessly  stupid  as  it  is  here.  The  world  is  25,000 
miles  in  circumference.  Why  spend  all  one's  days  in 
this  split  in  the  mountains?" 

"But,  tell  me,  what  is  your  ambition,  then?  Have 
you  one?" 

"You  would  smile  pityingly  if  I  told  it  you." 

"No;   I'll  be  as  serious  as — as  you." 

"Then  incline  thine  ear.  I  would  I  were  the  ruler  of 
a  savage  tribe,  in  the  heart  of  far-away  New  Zealand, 
shut  in  by  towering  mountains  from  the  outer  world.'' 

"But  why  spend  all  one's  days  in  a  valley?" 

"Oh,  well,  if  you're  going  in  for  a  valley,  why  not 
have  a  good  one?" 

She  throws  herself  down  beside  him  on  the  grass  and 
clasps  her  arms  about  his  neck.  "You  foolish  boy;  you 
don't  know  what  you  want." 

"Don't  I?"  He  draws  the  glowing  face  to  his  and 
kisses  it. 


67188 


6  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

The  two  are  idling  in  a  grassy  nook  on  the  slope  of 
one  of  Vermont's  green  hills,  sheltered  by  a  clump  of 
spruce  from  observation  and  the  slanting  rays  of  the  sun. 

There  is  an  infinite  calm  in  the  late  spring  air,  and 
the  golden  afternoon  drifts  by  on  lazy  pinions.  Away 
in  the  west,  across  the  vale,  the  main  spur  of  the  Green 
Mountain  range  awaits  the  last  pencilings  of  the  low- 
descending  sun.  Southward  Wild  River  sings  its  way 
through  buttercup  and  daisy  flecked  meadows;  to  the 
north  the  smoke  from  the  chimneys  of  Raymond  blurs 
the  lines  of  as  fair  a  landscape  as  earth  can  boast. 

Derrick  Ames  pulls  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  stretches 
himself  on  the  greensward  and  gazes  long  and  lovingly 
at  his  companion.  The  fair  face,  browned  by  many  ram 
bles  among  the  hills;  the  rippling  hair,  tumbled  in  con 
fusion  about  mischievous  and  laughter-laden  brown 
eyes;  the  rounded  arms;  the  slim,  girlish  figure,  about 
which  even  the  coarse  dress  donned  for  mountain  climb 
ing  falls  in  graceful  lines;  the  dainty  feet  and  the  per 
fectly  turned  ankles,  make  a  picture  for  an  artist. 

She  picked  up  the  book  which  lies  open  upon  the 
grass  and  glances  over  its  pages,  dreamily. 

The  sun  goes  down  in  a  golden  haze,  and  still  the 
lovers  tarry  in  their  sylvan  trysting-place. 

"It  is  getting  late  and  damp;  we  had  better  be  mov 
ing,"  he  says,  finally. 

They  arise  and  take  their  way  across  the  pasture,  their 
arms  clasped  about  each  other's  waist.  Derrick  is  talk 
ing  in  low,  earnest  tones,  with  an  infrequent  interruption 
by  his  companion. 

"It's  no  use,"  he  exclaims,  impatiently,  in  reply  to  a 
protest  on  her  part.  "Twice  I  have  spoken  to  your 
father,  with  the  same  result.  I  have  been  refused  and 
insulted.  He  is  selfish,  overbearing — " 

She  places  one  hand  upon  his  lips.  "But  will  you  not 
make  a  third  trial — for  my  sake,"  she  pleads. 

"For  your  sake  I  would  do  anything,"  he  answers, 
pressing  the  soft  hand  to  his  lips.  "There  is  no  time 
like  the  present.  Will  you  wait  for  me  here?"  She 
nods.  "Where  will  I  find  your  father?" 


OVER    THE    HILLS    AND    FAR    AWAY.  7 

"At  the  bank.  I  think  he  said  he  would  be  there  all 
the  evening." 

"I  will  return  shortly,  for  I  know  what  the  answer 
will  be." 

She  watches  the  erect  form  of  her  lover  as  he  strides 
down  the  road  leading  into  the  village. 

The  shadows  deepen  in  the  valley.  The  opalescent 
light  that  hangs  over  the  range  fades  into  the  darkening 
gray.  The  moon  rises  in  full,  round  splendor  and  trans 
forms  the  river  into  a  silver  torrent. 

The  clanging  of  the  Raymond  town  clock,  as  it  ham 
mers  out  the  hour  of  8,  rouses  the  girl.  "Derrick  should 
be  here  soon,"  she  murmurs.  Then  she  clutches  her 
heart  with  an  exclamation  of  pain  and  terror. 

It  is  a  swift,  sharp  spasm,  that  passes  away  as  quickly 
as  it  came,  and  which  leaves  the  girl  for  several  minutes 
afterward  somewhat  dazed.  Footsteps  echo  in  the  road. 

"The  result?"  eagerly,  anxiously  queries  the  girl  as 
Derrick  reaches  her  side. 

He  must  have  walked  swiftly.  He  is  breathing  hard 
and  his  face  is  pale  as  the  moonlight.  Or  is  it  the  re 
flection  of  that  light? 

"Come  away  from  here,  for  God's  sake!"  he  exclaims 
in  a  harsh,  unnatural  voice,  half-dragging  her  into  the 
road.  "I  beg  your  pardon;  I  did  not  mean  to  be  rough,'' 
he  adds,  as  the  astonished  eyes  of  the  girl  look  into  his. 
"Will  you  come  for  a  walk,  dear?"  And  as  she  follows, 
mechanically,  wonderingly,  he  walks  swiftly  away  from 
the  village. 

"I  am  all  out  of  breath,"  she  protests,  after  a  few  mo 
ments  of  the  fierce  pace  he  has  set.  And  they  stop  to 
rest  at  a  spring  beside  the  road. 

"You  have  quarreled  with  father,"  asserts  the  girl,  half 
questioningly;  but  Derrick  remains  silent. 

He  stops  suddenly,  and,  holding  her  in  his  arms, 
smooths  back  the  dark  ringlets  from  her  moist  brow. 
"Helen,  darling,  do  not  press  me  for  an  answer  to-night. 
Let  us  be  happy  in  the  present.  God  knows  it  may  not 
be  for  long."  He  presses  a  passionate  kiss  upon  the 
girl's  unresisting  and  unresponsive  lips,  and  then  lifts 


8  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

to  the  moonlight  a  face  as  troubled  as  the  tossing  river 
behind  the  dusky  willows.  As  he  releases  her  he  ex 
tends  his  arm  toward  the  ball  of  silver  that  is  wheeling 
up  the  heavens.  "See!"  he  cries.  "The  moon  is  up 
and  it  is  a  glorious  night.  Shall  we  follow  that  pathway 
of  silver  over  the  hills  and  far  away?" 

A  loving  look  is  her  willing  assent. 

The  witchery  that  the  moon  is  said  to  exert  o'er  mor 
tals  must  be  more  than  a  poet's  myth.  A  strange  peace 
has  come  upon  the  girl.  Her  senses  are  exalted.  She 
seems  to  be  walking  on  air.  Nor  does  she  now 
break  upon  the  silence  of  her  companion,  whose  agita 
tion  has  been  replaced  by  a  singular  calm. 

What  a  stillness,  yet  what  a  busy  world  claims  the 
woods  they  are  crossing  to-night!  The  crawling  of  a 
beetle  through  the  dead  leaves  is  distinctly  heard,  and  a 
thousand  small  noises  that  the  day  never  hears  fill  the 
forest  with  a  strange  music. 

A  short  distance  farther  and  the  wanderers  emerge 
into  the  open  and  pause  to  marvel  at  the  picture  spread 
before  them. 

It  is  a  wondrous  night.  Bathed  in  a  radiance  that 
tips  with  silver  every  dew-laden  spear  of  grass,  the  pas 
ture  slopes  down  to  a  highway,  and  the  brawling  of  the 
brook  beside  it  comes  to  their  ears  as  a  strain  of  music. 

Silently  the  lovers  take  their  way  through  this  fairy 
land,  clamber  over  the  wall  into  the  road,  and  continue 
on. 

"I  am  cold,"  complains  the  girl,  with  a  little  shiver. 
Derrick  wraps  his  light  overcoat  about  her  shoulders. 


The  striking  of  a  town  clock  causes  them  both  to 
start. 

"Where  are  we?"  asks  the  girl,  looking  about  her  in 
bewilderment.  The  moon  passes  behind  a  cloud.  The 
spell  is  over. 

"Why,  this  is  Ashfield,  isn't  it?  There  is  the  station, 
and  the  church  and  the — Derrick!  Derrick,  where  have 
we  been  wandering?  Five  miles  from  home  and  mid- 


OVER    THE    HILLS    AND    FAR    AWAY.  9 

night!  What  will  Louise  and  father  say?  We  must 
go  home  at  once." 

"Home,"  he  repeats,  bitterly,  pointing  to  the  north. 
"There  is  no  home  yonder  for  me.  Listen,  Helen!" 
He  draws  her  to  him  fiercely.  "If  we  part  now  it  must 
be  forever.  I  shall  never  go  back.  1  cannot  go  back! 
Will  you  not  come  away  with  me — somewhere — any 
where?  Hark!" 

The  whistle  of  the  Montreal  express  sounds  from  the 
north. 

The  girl  seems  not  to  hear  him.  The  long  whistle  of 
the  express  again  echoes  through  the  night. 

"Helen,  darling!"  There  is  a  world  of  yearning  and 
entreaty  in  his  voice. 

She  throws  her  arms  about  him  and  kisses  him.  "Yes, 
Derrick;  I  will  go  with  you — to  the  end  of  the  world." 

The  station  agent  regards  the  pair  suspiciously.  In 
the  dim  light  of  the  kerosene  lamps  of  the  waiting-room 
their  features  are  only  partially  discernible. 

"Sorry,"  he  says,  "but  this  train  don't  stop  except  for 
through  passengers  to  New  York." 

"But  we  are  going  to  New  York,"  almost  shouts  Der 
rick.  "Quick,  man!"  The  train  has  swept  around  the 
curve  above  the  village  and  is  thundering  down  the 
stretch. 

"Wall,  I  guess  I  kin  accommerdate  ye,"  drawls  the 
station  master.  He  seizes  his  lantern  and  swings  it  about 
his  head  and  No.  51  draws  up  panting  in  the  station. 

"Elopement,  I  guess,"  confides  the  station  agent  to 
the  conductor,  as  Derrick  and  the  girl  clamber  aboard 
the  train. 

The  latter  growls  something  about  being  twenty  min 
utes  late  out  of  St.  Albans,  swings  his  lantern  and  No. 
51  rumbles  away  in  the  mist  and  moonlight. 


10  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    PRISONER    OF    WINDSOR— THE    TRAGEDY    OF    A 

NIGHT. 

"Stanley,  I  have  good  news  for  you.'1          t 

"All  news  is  alike  to  me,  sir." 

Warden  Chase  of  the  Vermont  state  prison  regards 
the  young  man  before  him  with  a  kindly  eye. 

"Your  sentence  of  three  years  has  been  shortened  by 
a  year,  as  the  governor  has  granted  you  an  unconditional 
pardon,"  he  announces. 

"His  excellency  is  kind,"  replied  the  young  man  in  a 
voice  that  expresses  no  gratitude  and  may  contain  a 
faint  shade  of  irony. 

He  is  a  striking-looking  young  fellow,  even  in  his 
prison  garb,  his  dark  hair  cropped  close  and  his  eyes 
cast  down  in  the  passive  manner  enjoined  by  the  prison 
regulations.  His  height  is  about  five  feet  ten  inches 
and  his  figure  is  rather  slender  and  graceful.  His  face 
is  singularly  handsome.  His  eyes  are  dark  brown,  al 
most  black,  and  the  two  long  years  of  prison  life  have 
dimmed  but  little  of  the  fire  that  flashes  from  their  depths. 
A  square  jaw  bespeaks  a  strong  will.  The  rather  hard 
lines  about  the  firm  mouth  were  not  there  two  years 
before.  He  has  suffered  mentally  since  then.  There 
are  too  many  gray  hairs  for  a  man  of  28. 

Warden  Chase  touches  a  bell.  "Get  Stanley's  things," 
he  orders  the  attendant,  who  responds. 

"Sit  down,  Stanley."  The  young  man  obeys  and  the 
warden  wheels  about  to  his  desk. 

"I  am  authorized  to  purchase  you  a  railroad  ticket 
to  any  station  you  may  designate — within  reason,  of 
course,"  amends  Mr.  Chase.  "Which  shall  it  be?''  A 
bitter  smile  flits  across  Stanley's  face  and  he  remains 
silent. 

"North,  east,  south  or  west?"  questions  Mr.  Chase, 
poising  his  pen  in  air. 


THE    PRISONER    OF    WINDSOR.  11 

"I  have  no  home  to  go  to,"  finally  responds  Stanley, 
lifting  his  eyes  for  the  first  time  since  his  entrance  to 
the  room. 

''No  home?"  repeats  the  warden,  sympathetically. 
"But  surely  you  must  want  to  go  somewhere.  You 
can't  stay  in  Windsor." 

Stanley  is  thoughtful.  "Perhaps  you  had  better  make 
the  station  Raymond,"  he  decides,  and  he  meets  squarely 
the  surprised  and  questioning  look  of  the  warden. 

"But  that  is  the  place  you  were  sent  from." 

"Yes." 

"It  is  not  your  home?  No;  I  believe  you  just  stated 
that  you  had  no  home." 

"I  have  none." 

"And  you  wish  to  revisit  the  scene  of  your — your 
trouble?" 

Stanley's  gaze  wanders  to  the  open  window  and  across 
the  valley. 

"Well,  it's  your  own  affair,"  says  the  warden,  turning 
to  his  desk.  "The  fare  to  Raymond  is  $2.50.  I  am  also 
authorized  to  give  you  $5  cash,  to  which  I  have  added 
$10.  You  have  assisted  me  about  the  books  of  the 
institution  and  have  been  in  every  respect  a  model  pris 
oner.  In  fact,"  supplements  Mr.  Chase,  with  a  smile, 
"under  different  circumstances  I  should  be  sorry  to  part 
with  you." 

"Thank  you,"  acknowledges  Stanley,  in  the  same  im 
passive  tones. 

"And  now,  my  boy,"  counsels  the  warden,  laying  one 
hand  kindly  on  the  young  man's  shoulder,  "try  to  make 
your  future  life  such  that  you  will  never  be  compelled  to 
see  the  inside  of  another  house  of  this  kind.  I  am 
something  of  a  judge  of  character.  I  am  confident  that 
you  have  the  making  of  a  man  in  you.  Here  are  your 
things,"  as  the  attendant  arrives  with  Stanley's  effects. 

Mr.  Chase  resumes  his  writing  and  Stanley  withdraws. 
Once  within  the  familiar  cell,  which  is  soon  to  know  him 
no  more,  his  whole  mood  changes. 

"Free!"  he  breathes,  exultingly,  raising  his  clasped 
hands  to  heaven.  "What  matter  it  if  my  freedom  be  of 


12  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

a  few  days  only,  of  a  few  hours?  It  will  be  enough  for 
my  purpose.  Heavens!  Two  years  in  this  hole,  caged 
like  a  wild  beast,  the  companion  of  worse  than  beasts — 
a  life  wrecked  at  28.  But  I'll  be  revenged!  As  surely 
as  there  is  a  heaven  above  me,  I'll  be  repaid  for  my 
months  of  misery.  An  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a 
tooth!" 

He  throws  his  prison  suit  from  him  with  loathing. 
Then  he  sinks  back  into  his  apathy  and  the  simple  toilet 
is  completed  in  silence. 

A  suit  of  light  gray,  of  stylish  cut,  a  pair  of  well-made 
boots,  a  neglige  shirt  and  a  straw  hat,  make  considerable 
change  in  his  appearance.  He  smiles  faintly  as  he  dons 
them. 

He  ties  his  personal  effects  in  a  small  package.  They 
are  few — half  a  dozen  letters,  all  with  long-ago  post 
marks,  a  couple  of  photographs,  and  a  small  volume  of 
Shakespeare  given  him  by  the  warden,  who  is  an  admirer 
of  Avon's  bard. 

"Off?"  asks  Mr.  Chase,  as  he  shakes  hands.  "Well, 
you  look  about  the  same  as  when  I  received  you.  A 
little  older,  perhaps" — surveying  him  critically — "and 
minus  what  I  remember  to  have  been  a  handsome  mus 
tache.  Good-by,  my  boy,  and  good  luck.  And,  I  say/' 
as  Stanley  strides  toward  the  door,  "take  my  advice  and 
the  afternoon  train  for  New  York.  Get  some  honest 
employment  and  make  a  name  for  yourself.  You've  got 
the  right  stuff  in  you.  By  the  way,  do  you  know  what 
day  it  is?" 

"I  have  not  followed  the  calendar  with  reference  to 
any  particular  days." 

"The  3Oth  day  of  May — Memorial  day,"  says  Mr. 
Chase. 

"It  will  be  a  memorial  day  for  me,"  responds  Stanley. 
"Good-by,  Mr.  Chase,  and  thank  you  for  your  many 
kindnesses." 

"I'm  rather  sorry  to  have  him  go,"  soliloquizes  the 
warden,  as  his  late  charge  walks  slowly  away  from  the 
institution.  "Bright  fellow,  but  peculiar — very  peculiar." 

Stanley  proceeds  leisurely  along  the  road  leading  to 


THE    PRISONER   OF   WINDSOR.  13 

the  station.  His  eyes  are  bent  down,  and  he  seemingly 
takes  no  note  of  the  glories  of  the  May  day,  of  the 
throbbings  of  the  busy  life  about  him.  A  procession 
of  Grand  Army  men,  headed  by  a  brass  band  that  makes 
music  more  mournful  than  the  occasion  seems  to  call 
for,  passes  by  on  the  dusty  highway. 

"Homage  for  the  dead;  contumely  for  the  living,"  he 
murmurs,  bitterly. 

The  train  for  the  north  leaves  at  4:30.  Stanley  spends 
the  time  between  in  making  some  small  purchases  at 
the  village. 

"At  what  hour  do  we  arrive  at  Raymond?"  he  asks 
the  conductor,  as  the  train  pulls  out. 

"Seven  forty-five,  if  we  are  on  time." 

"Thank  you,"  returns  the  young  man.  He  draws  his 
hat  over  his  eyes,  and  turns  his  face  to  the  window. 


At  7:45  o'clock  in  the  evening  Sarah,  the  pretty  house 
maid  at  the  residence  of  Cyrus  Felton,  answers  a  sharp 
ring  at  the  door  bell.  In  the  semi-darkness  of  the  vine- 
shaded  porch  she  distinguishes  only  the  outlines  of  a 
man  who  stands  well  back  from  the  door.  The  gas  has 
not  yet  been  lighted  in  the  hall. 

"Is  Mr.  Felton  at  home?"  inquires  the  visitor. 

"The  young  or  the  old  Mr.  Felton?" 

"The  young  or  the  old?"  repeats  the  man  to  himself. 

Sarah  twists  the  door-knob  impatiently.  "Well?"  she 
says. 

"I  beg  your  pardon;  I  was  not  aware  that  there  were 
two  Mr.  Feltons.  I  believe  the  elder  is  the  person  I  wish 
to  see. 

"He  is  not  at  home." 

"He  is  in  town?" 

"Oh,  yes.  He  went  down-street  about  7  o'clock,  but 
we  expect  him  back  before  long." 

"Would  he  be  likely  to  be  at  his  office?" 

Sarah  does  not  know.  Mr.  Felton  rarely  goes  to  the 
office  evenings.  Still,  he  may  be  there. 

"And  the  office  is  where?" 


14  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"In  the  bank  block."  Sarah  peers  out  at  her  ques 
tioner,  but,  with  a  "thank  you,"  he  has  already  stepped 
from  the  porch.  As  he  strides  away  in  the  dusk  and  the 
house  door  slams  behind  him,  a  second  figure  leaves 
the  shadow  of  the  trellis,  moves  across  the  lawn  and 
pauses  at  the  gate. 

"In  the  vbank  building,"  he  muses.  "One  visitor  ahead 
of  me.  Well,  there  is  no  need  of  my  hurrying/'  and  he 
saunters  toward  the  village,  the  electric  lamps  of  which 
have  begun  to  flash. 

At  8:05,  as  Sarah  afterwards  remembers,  Cyrus  Fel- 
ton  arrives  home.  Sarah  comes  into  the  hall  to  receive 
him. 

"A  gentleman  called  to  see  you,  sir,  about  ten  min 
utes  ago.  Did  you  meet  him  on  your  way?" 

"Probably  not.  I  have  been  over  to  Mr.  Good- 
enough's.  Did  he  leave  any  name?" 

"No,  sir.  Oh,  and  here  is  a  letter  that  a  boy  brought 
a  little  while  ago."  Sarah  produces  a  note  from  the  hall 
table  and  disappears  upstairs. 

Mr.  Felton  opens  the  note,  glances  at  its  contents 
and  utters  an  exclamation  of  impatience.  He  crumples 
the  paper  in  his  hand,  seizes  his  hat  and  hurries  from 
the  house  and  down  the  street. 

In  the  brightly  lighted  room  of  Prof.  George  Black, 
directly  over  the  quarters  of  the  Raymond  National  Bank, 
a  party  of  young  men  are  whiling  away  a  few  pleasant 
hours.  The  professor  is  lounging  in  an  easy-chair,  his 
feet  in  another,  and  is  lost  in  a  "meditation"  for  violin,  to 
which  Ed  Knapp  is  furnishing  a  piano  accompaniment. 
Suddenly  the  professor  rests  his  violin  across  his  knees. 

"Hark!"  he  exclaims  and  bends  his  head  toward  the 
open  window.  "Wasn't  that  a  shot  downstairs?" 

"Probably,"  assents  one  of  the  group.  "The  boys  in 
the  bank  have  been  plugging  water  rats  in  the  river  all 
the  afternoon." 

"But  it's  too  dark  to  shoot  rats." 

"Oh,  one  can  aim  pretty  straight  by  electric  light.  Go 
ahead  with  your  fiddling,  George.  Get  away  from  that 
piano,  Knapp,  and  let  the  professor  give  us  the  cavatina. 


THE    PRISONER   OP   WINDSOR.  16 

That's  my  favorite,  and  your  accompaniment  would  ruin 
it.  Let  'er  go,  professor." 

As  the  strains  of  the  Raff  cavatina  die  away,  a  man 
comes  out  of  the  entrance  of  the  Raymond  National 
Bank.  He  glances  swiftly  up,  then  down  the  street.  Then 
he  crosses  the  road  in  the  shadow  of  a  tall  building  and 
hurries  toward  the  station. 

"There  is  no  train,  north  or  south,  before  1 1 :5O,"  says 
the  telegraph  operator,  in  response  to  a  query  at  the  win 
dow.  He  is  clicking  off  a  message  and  does  not  turn 
his  head.  His  questioner  vanishes. 


"Jim,  Mr.  Felton  wants  to  see  you,''  the  clerk  of  the 
Raymond  Hotel  informs  the  sheriff  of  Mansfield  County, 
who  is  playing  cards  in  a  room  off  the  office.  Sheriff 
Wilson  is  a  man  with  a  game  leg,  a  war  record,  and  a 
wild  mania  for  the  diversion  of  sancho  pedro.  When  he 
sits  in  for  an  evening  of  that  fascinating  pastime  he  dis 
likes  to  be  disturbed. 

"What's  he  want?"  he  asks  absent-mindedly,  for  he 
has  only  two  more  points  to  make  to  win  the  game. 

"Dunno.  He  seems  to  be  worked  up  about  some 
thing." 

"High,  low,  pede!"  announces  the  sheriff  triumph 
antly.  "Gentlemen,  make  mine  a  cigar."  He  throws  his 
cards  down  and  goes  out  into  the  office.  Cyrus  Felton 
is  pacing  up  and  down  excitedly.  He  grasps  the  offi 
cer  by  the  arm  and  half  drags  him  from  the  hotel.  When 
they  are  out  of  hearing  of  the  loungers  he  exclaims, 
in  a  voice  that  trembles  with  every  syllable: 

"Mr.  Wilson,  a  fearful  crime  has  been  committed.  Mr. 
Hathaway  has  been  murdered!" 

"Murdered !"  The  sheriff's  excitement  transcends  that 
of  his  companion,  who  is  making  a  desperate  effort  to 
regain  his  composure. 

"He  is  at  the  bank.  I  discovered  him  only  a  few 
moments  ago.  Come,  see  for  yourself." 

They  soon  reach  the  bank,  which  is  only  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  hotel.  After  passing  the 'threshold  of 


16  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

the  cashier's  office  in  the  rear  of  the  banking-room  the 
two  men  stop  and  look  silently  upon  the  grewsome 
sight  before  them. 

Lying  upon  the  floor,  one  arm  extended  toward  and 
almost  touching  the  wide-open  doors  of  the  vault,  is 
the  body  of  Cashier  Roger  Hathaway.  His  life  has 
ebbed  in  the  crimson  pool  that  stains  the  polished 
floor. 


CHAPTER  III. 
JACK  ASHLEY,  JOURNALIST. 

A  loud  pounding  on  the  door  of  his  room  in  the 
tavern  at  South  Ashfield  awakens  Mr.  Jack  Ashley  from 
a  dream  of  piscatorial  conquest. 

"Four  o'clock!''  announces  the  disturber  of  his  slum 
bers,  with  a  parting  thump.  Ashley  rolls  out  of  bed  and 
plunges  his  face  into  a  brimming  bowl  of  spring  water. 

It  is  early  dawn.  A  cool  breeze,  laden  with  the  scent 
of  apple  blossoms,  drifts  through  the  window. 

"God  made  the  country  and  man  made  the  town," 
quotes  the  young  man,  as  he  descends  to  the  hotel  office. 

"Ain't  used  to  gittin'  up  at  this  hour,  be  ye?"  grins  the 
proprietary  genius  of  the  tavern. 

"The  habit,  worthy  host,  has  not  fastened  upon  me 
seriously.  This  is  usually  my  hour  for  going  to  bed. 
Hast  aught  to  eat?" 

"Breakfas'  all  ready,"  with  a  nod  toward  what  is 
known  as  the  dining-room. 

Ashley  shudders  as  he  gazes  at  the  spread.  It  is  the 
usual  Vermont  breakfast — weak  coffee,  two  kinds  of 
pie  on  one  plate,  and  a  tier  of  doughnuts. 

"Gad!  This  country  is  a  howling  wilderness  of  pie!" 
he  mutters,  surveying  the  repast  in  comical  despair.  "And 
to  flash  it  on  a  man  at  4  a.  m.!  It  is  simply  barbarous!" 

During  his  short  vacation  sojourn  Mr.  Ashley's  epi 
curean  tastes  have  suffered  a  number  of  distinct  shocks. 
But  the  ozone  of  the  Green  Mountains  has  contributed 


JACK    ASHLEY,    JOURNALIST.  17 

toward  the  generation  of  an  appetite  that  needs  little 
tempting  to  expend  its  energies.  He  makes  a  hearty 
breakfast  on  this  particular  morning,  drowns  the  mem 
ories  of  the  menu  in  a  bowl  of  milk,  and  announces 
to  Landlord  Howe  that  he  is  ready  to  be  directed  to  the 
best  trout  brook  in  central  Vermont. 

Mr.  Howe  surveys  the  eight-ounce  bamboo*  with  mild 
disdain.  "Them  fancy  rigs  ain't  much  good  on  our 
brooks,"  he  declares.  "Ketch  more  with  a  75-cent  rod." 

"I  am  rather  inclined  to  agree  with  you  on  that  point, 
most  genial  boniface;  but  it's  the  only  rod  I  happen 
to  have  with  me,  and.  I  expect  to  return  with  some 
fish  unless  the  myriad  denizens  of  the  brook  which  you 
enthusiastically  described  last  night  exist  only  in  your 
imagination.  By  the  way,  what  do  you  think  of  the 
bait?"  passing  over  a  flask. 

Mr.  Howe's  faded  blue  eyes  moisten  and  a  kindly  smile 
plays  over  a  countenance  browned  by  many  summers  in 
the  hay  field. 

"Didn't  buy  that  in  Vermont,"  he  ventures. 

"Hardly.     I'm  not  lined  with  asbestos." 

The  landlord  grins.     It  is  a  habit  he  has. 

"I  keeps  a  little  suthin'  on  hand  myself,"  he  confides 
in  a  cautious  undertone,  although  only  the  cattle  are 
listening.  "But  fact  is,  there  ain't  no  use  er  keepin' 
better'n  dollar'n  a  half  a  gallon  liquor.  The  boys  want 
suthin'  that'll  scratch  when  it  goes  down.  Now  that,  I 
opine,"  with  an  affectionate  glance  at  the  flask  which 
Ashley  files  away  for  future  reference,  "must  a  cost  nigh 
outer  $3  a  gallon." 

"As  much  as  that,"  smiles  Ashley.  "That,  most  ap 
preciative  of  bonifaces,  "is  the  best  whisky  to  be  found 
on  Fulton  street,  New  York.  Well,  I  must  be  'driving 
along.'  Where's  this  wonderful  brook  of  yours?" 

"Follow  that  road  round  through  the  barnyard  and 
'cross  the  basin  to  the  woods.  Good  fishin'  for  four 
miles.  And  mind,"  as  Ashley  saunters  away,  "don't  bring 
back  any  trouts  that  ain't  six  inches  long,  or  the  fish 
warden  will  light  on  ye." 


18  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Thanks.  If  I  should  run  across  the  warden "  and 

Ashley  holds  up  the  flask. 

"That'd  fetch  him,  I  reckon,"  chuckles  Mr.  Howe. 
Ashley  vaults  over  the  bars  and  strides  across  the 
meadows. 

Ashley  is  in  high  feather.  "This  air  rather  discounts 
an  absinthe  frappe  for  stimulative  purposes,"  he  solilo 
quizes.  "Ah,  here's  the  wood,  there's  the  brook,  and 
if  I  mistake  not,  yonder  pool  hides  a  whopper  just  ach 
ing  for  a  go  at  the  early  worm."  But  it  doesn't  and  Ash 
ley  enters  the  forest. 

The  farther  he  plunges  into  the  spice-laden  wilder 
ness  the  more  is  he  enchanted  with  his  surroundings. 
Picture  a  cleft  in  the  mountain  whose  sides  drop  almost 
sheer  to  a  gorge  barely  wide  enough  to  accommodate  a 
wood  road  and  a  brook  that  parallels  and  often  en 
croaches  upon  it.  Tall  pines  interlace  and  shut  out  the 
direct  rays  of  the  sun  and  every  now  and  then  a  cascade 
comes  tumbling  somewhere  aloft  and  plunges  into  a 
broad,  pebble-lined  basin. 

As  Ashley  sits  by  one  of  these  pools,  his  wading  boots 
plunged  deep  in  the  crystal  liquid,  and  pulls  lazily  on  a 
briar  pipe,  the  reader  is  offered  the  opportunity  of  be 
coming  better  acquainted  with  him. 

He  is  a  prepossessing  young  fellow  of  something  like 
27,  medium  height  and  rather  well  built.  Blue  eyes  and 
an  aggressive  nose,  on  which  gold-bowed  eyeglasses  are 
airily  perched,  are  characteristics  of  a  face  which  has 
always  been  a  passport  for  its  owner  into  all  society 
worth  cultivating.  A  well-shaped  head  is  adorned  with 
a  profusion  of  blond  curls,  supplemented  by  a  mustache 
of  silken  texture  and  golden  hue,  which  its  possessor 
is  fond  of  twisting  when  he  is  in  a  blithesome  humor, 
which  is  often,  and  of  tugging  at  savagely  when  in  a  re 
flective  mood,  which  is  infrequent. 

Ashley  is  noted  among  his  friends  for  chronic  good 
humor  and  unbounded  confidence  in  his  own  abilities. 
He  is  one  of  the  brightest  all-round  writers  on  the  New 
York  Hemisphere,  and  he  knows  it.  The  best  of  it  is, 
City  Editor  Ricker  also  knows  it.  All  the  office  sings 


JACK   ASHLEY,   JOURNALIST.  19 

of  his  exploits  and  "beats"  and  does  their  author  rever 
ence.  Jack  always  calls  himself  a  newspaper  man.  That 
is  the  sensible  title.  Yet  he  might  wear  the  name  of 
journalist  much  more  worthily. 

Ashley  is  in  Vermont  for  his  health.  Five  years  of 
continuous  hustling  on  a  big  New  York  daily  has  neces 
sitated  a  breathing  spell.  He  was  telling  Mr.  Ricker  that 
his  "wheels  were  all  run  down  and  needed  repairing," 
and  that  he  believed  he  would  take  his  vacation  early 
this  year. 

"I'll  tell  you  where  you  want  to  go/'  volunteered  the 
city  editor,  who  was  "raised"  among  the  Green  Moun 
tains  and  served  his  apprenticeship  gathering  locals  on 
a  Burlington  weekly. 

"All  right;  let's  have  it." 

"Take  three  weeks  off  and  go  up  into  Vermont." 

"Vermont — Vermont — where's  Vermont?  O,  yes,  that 
green  daub  on  the  map  of  New  England.  Railroad  run 
through  there?" 

"Now,  see  here,  Jack,"  retorted  Ricker,  "you're  not 
so  confoundedly  ignorant  as  you  imply.  That's  the 
trouble  with  you  New  Yorkers  who  were  born  and  bred 
here.  You  consider  everything  above  the  Harlem  River 
a  jay  community.  You're  a  sight  more  provincial  than 
half  the  inhabitants  of  rural  New  England." 

Jack  laughed.  "Come  to  think  of  it,  you  hailed  from 
there." 

"Yes,  and  it's  a  mighty  good  State  to  hail  from.  Now, 
you  run  up  to  Raymond — it's  a  little  town  about  in  the 
Y  of  the  Green  Mountain  range.  You'll  not  have  Broad 
way,  with  its  theaters,  and  restaurants,  and  bars,  but 
you'll  get  a  big  room,  with  a  clean,  airy  bed  to  sleep 
in — none  of  your  narrow  hall-chamber  cots — and  good, 
plain,  wholesome  food  to  eat.  Those  necessities  of  life 
which  Vermont  does  not  supply,  good  tobacco  and  good 
whisky,  you  can  take  with  you.  You'll  come  back  feeling 
like  a  righting  cock."  And  before  his  chief  finished  paint 
ing  the  attractions  of  the  Green  Mountain  State,  with 
incidental  references  to  John  Stark  and  Ethan  Allen, 


20  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

Ashley  was  willing  to  compromise  and  two  days  later 
found  him  en  route  for  Raymond. 

Jack  fishes  the  brook  as  he  does  everything  else — 
without  any  waste  of  mental  or  physical  exertion. 

Landlord  Howe  did  not  deceive  him.  It  is  an  excel 
lent  trout  brook,  and  by  the  time  the  sun  is  well  up 
he  has  acquired  a  well-filled  creel.  He  is  sauntering 
along  to  what  he  has  decided  shall  be  the  last  pool,  when, 
as  he  turns  a  bend  in  the  road,  he  runs  upon  a  man 
lying  beside  the  path,  with  one  arm  shading  his  face  and 
clutching  in  the  other  hand  a  package. 

"Hello!"  sings  out  Ashley,  stopping  short  in  surprise. 
The  man  arises  and  passes  his  hand  over  his  eyes  in 
bewilderment. 

"Off  the  main  road,  aren't  you?"  queries  Ashley.  The 
stranger  makes  no  reply.  He  bestows  upon  Ashley  a 
single  searching  glance  and  hurries  down  the  road  in  the 
direction  of  the  village. 

"He'll  be  likely  to  know  me  again,"  is  Jack's  com 
ment.  "Gad!  What  eyes!  They  went  through  me  like 
a  stiletto.  What  the  deuce  is  he  prowling  around  here 
for  at  this  time  o'  day?  He  isn't  a  fisherman  and  he 
can't  be  farming  it  with  those  store  clothes  on.  Well, 
here  goes  for  the  last  trout." 

The  last  trout  is  not  forthcoming,  however,  so  the 
fisherman  unjoints  his  rod,  reloads  and  fires  his  pipe  and 
strolls  slowly  back  to  the  hotel.  Landlord  Howe  sees 
him  as  he  comes  swinging  across  the  basin  and  waits 
with  some  impatience  until  the  young  man  gets  within 
hailing  distance,  when  he  informs  him  dramatically: 

"Big  murder  at  Raymond  last  night." 

"How  big?"  asks  Ashley,  with  lazy  interest  Murders 
are  frequent  episodes  in  his  line  of  business. 

Well,  it  is  the  largest  affair  that  Mr.  Howe  has  known 
of  "round  these  parts  since  dad  was  a  kid."  Roger 
Hathaway,  cashier  of  the  Raymond  National  bank,  has 
been  found  murdered  and  the  bank  robbed  of  a  large 
sum  of  money,  and  there  is  no  clew  to  the  murderer. 
The  details  of  the  tragedy  have  come  over  the  telephone 


JACK   ASHLEY,    JOURNALIST.  21 

wires  early  this  morning,  and  the  whole  county  is  in  a 
fever  of  excitement. 

"No  clew?"  muses  Ashley,  and  his  interest  in  the  affair 
grows.  Then  he  thinks  of  the  man  he  encountered  on 
the  brook  an  hour  ago.  "Seen  any  strangers  around 
here?"  he  inquires  of  Mr.  Howe. 

"No  one  'cept  you/'  replies  that  worthy,  contributing 
a  broad  grin. 

"Oh,  but  I  can  prove  an  alibi/'  laughs  Jack.  "I  came 
down  from  Raymond  on  the  early  evening  train,  and 
everyone  was  alive  in  the  town  then,  I  guess.  Are  the 
police  of  this  village  on  the  lookout?" 

"Well,  rather.  The  local  deputy  sheriff  is  on  the  alert 
as  never  before  in  his  life." 

"It  is  not  impossible  that  my  early  morning  friend  on 
the  brook  was  mixed  up  in  last  night's  affair,"  thinks 
Ashley.  But  he  says  nothing  of  the  meeting.  What  is 
the  use?  If  the  unknown  was  fleeing  he  must  be  pretty 
well  into  the  next  county  by  this  time.  But  in  what  di 
rection?" 

The  Raymond  murder  is  the  one  topic  of  the  day  at 
South  Ashfield.  The  villagers  are  gathered  in  force 
about  the  hotel  veranda  and  Ashley  fancies  that  they 
regard  him  a  trifle  askance  as  he  hunts  up  a  chair  and 
kills  an  hour  while  waiting  for  the  up-train,  in  listening 
to  the  rural  persiflage  of  the  group  and  the  ingenious 
theories  of  the  local  oracle. 

"At  what  time  did  the  killing  occur?"  he  inquires  of 
one  of  the  loungers.  Somewhere  around  8  o'clock  the 
night  before,  he  is  informed. 

"And  no  clew  to  the  murderer/'  he  meditates.  "Now, 
if  this  was  New  York  I'd  take  hold  of  the  affair  and  work 
it  for  all  it  was  worth." 

He  little  dreams  what  effect  the  "affair"  is  to  have  on 
his  future.  Yet  as  the  train  bears  him  to  Raymond  the 
instinct  of  the  newspaper  man  tells  him  that  it  is  a  cast 
possessing  phases  of  peculiar  interest.  And  he  is  not 
wholly  unprepared  for  the  telegram  that  is  thrust  into  his 
hands  when  he  leaves  the  train. 

"One  of  the  disadvantages  of  telling  your  paper  where 


22  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

you  intend  spending  your  vacation,"  he  remarks  as  he 
glances  at  the  dispatch.  Then  to  the  telegraph  operator: 
"I'll  have  a  story  for  you  after  supper." 


CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  STORY  OF  A  CRIME. 

The  following  dispatch  appeared  in  the  columns  of  the 
New  York  Hemisphere,  under  the  usual  sensational  head 
lines  : 

"Raymond,  Vt,  May  31. — This  quiet  town  among  the 
Green  Mountains  had  cause  indeed  to  mourn  upon  this 
year's  occurrence  of  the  nation's  Memorial  Day.  Last 
evening,  at  the  close  of  the  most  general  observance  of 
the  solemn  holiday  yet  undertaken  in  Raymond,  the  com 
munity  was  horror-stricken  by  the  discovery  of  the  foul 
est  crime  ever  committed  within  the  limits  of  the  state. 

"Roger  Hathaway,  cashier  of  the  Raymond  National 
Bank  and  treasurer  of  the  Wild  River  Savings  Bank, 
was  found  murdered  at  the  entrance  of  the  joint  vault 
of  the  two  institutions,  which  had  been  rifled  of  money 
and  securities  aggregating,  it  is  thought,  not  less  than 
$75,000.  The  crime  had  apparently  been  most  carefully 
planned  and  evidenced  not  only  thorough  familiarity 
with  the  town  and  the  interior  arrangements  of  the 
banks,  but  also  the  possession  of  the  fact  that  the  national 
bank  had  on  hand  at  the  time  an  unusual  amount  of 
ready  money.  The  position  of  the  murdered  cashier  and 
the  conditions  of  the  rooms  indicated  also  that  the 
official  had  met  his  death  while  endeavoring  to  protect 
the  funds  entrusted  to  his  care,  his  lifeless  body,  in  fact, 
barring  the  entrance  to  the  rifled  vault,  a  mute  witness 
to  his  faithfulness  even  unto  death. 

"The  Raymond  National  and  Wild  River  Savings 
Banks  occupy  commodious  quarters  on  the  ground  floor 
of  Bank  Block,  a  three-story  brick  structure  on  Main 


THE    STORY    OF    A    CRIME.  23 

Street,  the  principal  business  thoroughfare  of  the  town. 
The  banking  rooms  are  in  the  northern  portion  of  the 
block,  occupying  the  entire  depth  of  the  building,  the 
only  entrance  being  from  Main  Street.  The  north  wall 
of  the  block  is  parallel  with  a  tributary  of  the  Wild  River, 
which  joins  that  stream,  about  300  yards  distant.  The 
interiors  of  the  banking-rooms  are  plainly  but  conven 
iently  arranged.  A  steel  wire  cage  extends  east  and  west, 
separating  the  officials  of  the  institutions  from  the  public, 
with  the  customary  counter  and  two  windows  for  the 
savings  and  national  bank,  respectively.  At  the  rear 
of  the  room  is  the  private  office  of  the  cashier,  separated 
from  the  main  room  in  part  by  the  vault,  an  old-fashioned 
brick  affair,  built  into  the  partition  in  such  a  manner  as 
to  be  partly  in  both  rooms.  The  iron  doors  to  the  vault 
open  into  the  cashier's  private  office,  although  originally 
designed  to  be  entirely  within  the  main  office.  Some 
years  prior  the  office  of  the  cashier  was  enlarged  to  ac 
commodate  the  meetings  of  the  directors,  and  the  parti 
tion  was  moved  east,  bringing  the  major  portion  of  the 
vault  within  the  enlarged  room.  Two  doors  communicate 
with  the  cashier's  room,  one  opening  from  the  public 
office,  the  other  from  the  interior  of  the  main  banking- 
room.  Two  large  windows,  looking  respectively  west 
and  north,  afford  light  for  the  cashier's  office.  Both 
these  windows  are  heavily  barred,  as  indeed  are  the  two 
windows  on  the  north  side  of  the  main  office.  A  dark 
closet,  four  by  six  feet,  in  the  southwest  corner  of  the 
cashier's  room,  serves  in  part  as  a  storage-room  for  old 
ledgers,  account-books  and  supplies,  and  as  a  wardrobe 
for  employes. 

"It  was  in  the  cashier's  room  that  the  tragedy  that  has 
so  sadly  marred  the  evening  of  Memorial  Day  took  place, 
that  witnessed  the  awful  struggle  between  the  assassin 
and  the  white-haired  custodian  of  the  bank's  funds.  The 
details  of  that  struggle  may  never  be  known,  but  the 
circumstances  tell  plainly  that  Cashier  Hathaway  either 
surprised  the  assassin  in  the  dark  closet,  where  he  had 
perhaps  concealed  himself  to  await  an  opportunity  to 
work  upon  the  combination  of  the  safe,  or  had  himself 


24  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS 

been  surprised  while  about  to  close  the  door  of  the 
vault. 

"The  crime  was  committed  in  the  vicinity  of  8  p.  m., 
and  its  early  discovery — within  less  than  half  an  hour 
thereafter,  indeed — singularly  enough  was  due  to  a  letter 
which  the  murdered  cashier  had  previously  sent  to  the 
president  of  the  bank,  requesting  his  immediate  presence 
to  confer  on  a  business  matter.  The  president,  the  Hon. 
Cyrus  Felton,  upon  returning  to  his  residence  shortly 
after  8  o'clock,  found  a  note  from  Cashier  Hathaway 
asking  him  to  call  at  the  bank  at  once.  The  note  had 
been  left  by  a  messenger,  the  servant  stated,  about  fifteen 
minutes  before.  Mr.  Felton  hastily  repaired  to  the  bank, 
about  ten  minutes'  walk.  He  found  J:he  outer  door  ajar, 
but  the  door  to  the  cashier's  private  office  was  locked. 
This  was  not  unusual,  and,  presuming  that  the  cashier 
was  busy  within,  Mr.  Felton  used  his  own  key  and 
opened  the  door  without  knocking.  Then  the  awful  dis 
covery  of  the  murder  was  made. 

"Cashier  Hathaway  lay  face  downward  in  front  of  the 
open  safe  door,  his  right  arm  partially  drawn  up  beneath 
the  body  and  his  heavy  oaken  desk  chair  overturned 
near  by.  His  first  thought  being  that  the  cashier  had 
fallen  in  a  shock,  Mr.  Felton  hastened  to  raise  the  re 
cumbent  form.  As  he  turned  the  body  over,  the  soft 
rays  from  the  argand  lamp  on  the  cashier's  desk  revealed 
an  ominous  pool  upon  the  polished  floor,  even  now 
augmented  by  the  slight  moving  of  the  body.  Roger 
Hathaway  lay  weltering  in  his  own  blood,  slowly  oozing 
from  a  bullet  hole  directly  over  the  heart. 

"It  was  several  moments  before  Mr.  Felton  could  pull 
himself  together  to  take  cognizance  of  the  circumstances. 
He  then  noted  the  unmistakable  evidences  of  a  desperate 
struggle.  As  stated,  the  cashier's  own  chair  lay  over 
turned  near  the  body;  one  of  the  side  drawers  in  the 
desk  was  partially  drawn  out,  and  the  orderly  row  of 
directors'  chairs  were  now  disarranged  as  if  a  heavy  body 
had  been  flung  violently  against  them.  The  door  of  the 
dark  closet  was  wide  open  and  a  lot  of  old  ledgers  that 
had  been  piled  upon  its  floor  were  toppled  over  into  the 


THE    STORY    OF    A    CRIME.  25 

room.  The  doors  of  the  safe  were  open,  and  a  glance 
within  revealed  the  principal  money  drawer  half-with 
drawn,  and  empty  save  of  two  canvas  bags  of  specie  and 
nickels;  a  goodly  bunch  of  keys  with  chain  attached 
hanging  in  the  lock.  The  story  was  told.  Cashier  Hatha 
way  had  been  murdered  and  the  bank  robbed. 

"Mr.  Felton  immediately  notified  Sheriff  Wilson,  and 
the  legal  machinery  of  the  town  was  at  once  set  in 
motion  to  encompass  the  capture  of  the  murderer  and 
robber.  It  was  thought  that  with  the  short  start  ob 
tained  the  feat  would  be  a  comparatively  easy  matter. 

"Nearly  $50,000  in  available  cash,  and  half  as  much 
more  in  securities,  part  negotiable  and  part  worthless  to 
the  robber,  were  secured  by  the  murderer.  The  presence 
of  this  unusually  large  amount  of  ready  money  was  due 
to  the  fact  that  $50,000  of  Mansfield  County  bonds  ma 
tured  to-day  and  were  payable  at  the  Raymond  National 
Bank. 

"The  presence  of  Cashier  Hathaway  in  the  bank  at  that 
particular  time  was  by  the  merest  chance,  and  the  con 
clusion  is  therefore  irresistible  that  the  murder  was  not 
premeditated.  The  savings  and  national  banks,  though 
both  among  the  most  prosperous  and  stable  fiduciary 
institutions  in  the  state,  are  comparatively  small,  the 
capital  of  the  national  bank  being  $50,000  and  employing 
but  a  small  clerical  force.  The  latter  comprise,  besides 
the  cashier,  the  teller  of  the  bank,  Frederick  Sibley;  the 
bookkeeper  of  the  savings  bank,  Ralph  Felton,  son  of  the 
president,  and  one  clerk,  a  youth  named  Edward  Max 
well.  For  the  last  two  weeks  the  teller,  Mr.  Sibley,  has 
been  confined  to  his  residence  by  illness,  and  consider 
able  extra  labor  has  necessarily  devolved  upon  the 
cashier.  Memorial  Day,  a  legal  holiday  in  Vermont,  the 
bank  had  been  closed,  and  on  returning  from  the  services 
at  the  cemetery,  in  which  he  had  taken  part — for  Mr. 
Hathaway  had  been  a  gallant  soldier  in  the  famous  Ver 
mont  brigade — the  cashier  had  dropped  into  the  bank, 
apparently  to  complete  some  work  upon  the  books.  It 
is  possible  that  the  robber — the  opinion  is  general  that 
there  was  but  one  engaged  in  the  enterprise — had  pre- 


26  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

viously  entered  the  bank,  and  upon  the  entrance  of  the 
cashier  concealed  himself  in  the  only  place  available, 
the  dark  closet.  He  may  have  remained  an  unobserved 
spectator  of  the  cashier  through  the  partly  opened  door 
and  as  the  latter  finished  his  work  and  prepared  to  close 
the  safe,  the  robber  may  have  concluded,  by  a  coup  de 
main,  to  save  himself  the  trouble  of  attempting  to  solve 
the  combination,  and,  noiselessly  stepping  from  the 
closet,  have  sought  to  surprise  the  cashier.  On  this 
hypothesis  the  presumption  is  that  Mr.  Hathaway  became 
aware  of  his  danger,  and  turning  sought  to  ward  off  the 
blow,  when  the  struggle  ensued  that  was  ended  with  his 
death.  Or  the  cashier  may  have  discovered  the  presence 
of  some  intruder  in  the  closet,  and  seizing  his  revolver, 
which  he  kept  in  a  drawer  of  his  desk,  he  may  have 
approached  the  closet,  when  the  robber  sprung  upon  him 
and,  wresting  the  weapon  from  the  feeble  hands  of  the 
old  banker,  turned  it  against  the  latter's  breast. 

"The  fatal  shot  was  fired  at  so  close  range  that  the 
clothing  of  the  victim  was  scorched  by  the  explosion. 
No  weapon  was  found  in  the  room;  the  revolver  which, 
as  noted  above,  the  cashier  was  known  to  have  kept  in 
his  desk,  is  also  missing.  The  wound  was  made,  the 
physicians  state,  by  a  32-caliber  bullet,  which  penetrated 
the  breast  directly  above  the  vital  organ,  and  death  must 
have  been  instantaneous.  The  shot  was  fired  at  about 
8  o'clock.  Prof.  Black,  who  occupies  rooms  directly  over 
the  cashier's  office,  heard  a  shot  at  that  time,  as  did  sev 
eral  friends  who  were  in  the  room  with  him,  but  they 
attributed  it  to  boys  shooting  water  rats  from  the  bridge 
beneath  the  professor's  window. 

"Thus  far  the  tragedy  possesses  few  extraordinary  fea 
tures.  But  what  has  become  of  the  murderer?  Ray 
mond  is  not  so  populous  that  the  presence  of  a  stranger 
would  be  unnoted.  Yet  no  one  has  volunteered  informa 
tion  of  any  suspicious  characters  in  town.  Within  fifty 
minutes  of  the  commission  of  a  daring  crime  the  per 
petrator  disappeared,  leaving  not  a  trace  for  the  local 
sleuths.  The  last  seen  of  Mr.  Hathaway  alive,  so  far  as 
known,  was  about  7:45  o'clock,  when  he  stepped  to  the 


THE    STORY   OF   A   CRIME.  27 

door  of  the  bank,  and,  calling  a  boy  who  was  standing 
on  the  bridge,  throwing  stones  into  the  stream,  asked  him 
to  take  a  letter  to  President  Felton  at  his  house.  Half  an 
hour  later  he  was  found  shot  through  the  heart  in  his 
office. 

"President  Felton  was  seen  by  the  Hemisphere  repre 
sentative  to-day,  and  told  the  story  of  the  finding  of  the 
dead  cashier  substantially  as  outlined  above.  He  was 
terribly  affected  by  the  tragedy  and  could  hardly  be  in 
duced  to  converse  regarding  it. 

"Roger  Hathaway  was  one  of  the  best  known  and 
highly  esteemed  residents  of  Raymond.  He  was  63  years 
of  age  and  had  been  identified  with  the  national  and 
savings  banks  ever  since  their  organization,  the  last 
twenty  years  as  cashier  and  treasurer  respectively.  He 
was  prominent  in  Grand  Army  and  church  circles;  a 
deacon  in  the  Congregational  Church.  Of  a  severely 
stern  but  eminently  just  disposition,  it  was  not  known 
that  Deacon  Hathaway  possessed  an  enemy  in  the  world. 
He  lived  in  a  plain  but  substantial  mansion,  the  family 
homestead  of  several  generations  of  Hathaways,  with  his 
two  daughters,  his  wife  having  died  some  ten  years  before. 
He  was  one  of  the  founders  of  both  the  savings  and 
national  banks,  which  under  his  management  had  pros 
pered  to  an  unusual  degree  and  stood  high  among  the 
banking  institutions  of  the  state.  He  had  held  several 
important  positions  in  the  gift  of  his  townspeople,  and  as 
town  treasurer  his  rugged  honesty,  economic  conserva 
tism  and  strict  observance  of  the  letter  of  the  law  in  the 
handling  of  the  town's  funds,  had  earned  for  him  the 
sobriquet  of  'watchdog  of  the  treasury,'  a  title  which  he 
sealed  even  with  his  life  blood. 

"Up  to  a  late  hour  this  evening  no  clew  to  the  mur 
derer  has  been  discovered.  The  theory  is  held  by  the 
local  police  that  the  deed  was  clearly  that  of  an  expert 
bank  robber,  and  they  are  inclined  to  think  that  he  may 
be  a  member  of  the  same  gang  that  has  broken  into 
numerous  postoffices  in  New  Hampshire  and  Vermont 
within  the  last  few  months.  The  officials  cite  the  fact  that 
the  local  papers  had  advertised  that  $50,000  in  Mansfield 


28  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

County  bonds  were  to  be  redeemed  at  the  Raymond 
National  Bank  upon  this  particular  date,  and  the  natural 
presumption  that  the  bank  would  have  on  hand  a  large 
amount  of  currency,  with  the  knowledge  that  yesterday 
was  a  holiday,  when  the  bank  would  be  closed  and  afford 
an  unusual  opportunity  to  work  upon  the  safe,  would 
form  a  strong  inducement  to  a  daring  burglar." 


CHAPTER  V. 
A  STRANGE  DISAPPEARANCE. 

(By  telegraph  to  tne  ISlew  York  Hemisphere.) 
"Raymond,  Vt,  June  I. — A  startling  sequel  to  the 
murder  of  Cashier  Hathaway  and  the  robbery  of  the  Ray 
mond  National  and  Wild  River  Savings  Banks  was  de 
veloped  to-day  in  the  mysterious  disappearance  of  Miss 
Helen  Hathaway,  the  younger  daughter  of  the  dead 
banker,  and  Derrick  Ames,  a  well-known  young  man 
of  Raymond. 

"Ames  is  about  27  years  old,  and  occupied  a  respon 
sible  and  lucrative  position  in  the  local  office  of  the  Ver 
mont  Life  Insurance  Company.  While  not  possessing  a 
positive  reputation  for  evil,  Ames  was  regarded  askance 
by  the  more  staid  and  conservative  residents  of  the  town, 
and  his  position  socially  was  somewhat  anomalous.  He 
had  resided  in  Raymond  some  five  or  six  years  and  was 
known  to  have  been  a  warm  admirer  of  Miss  Hathaway. 
But  it  was  equally  apparent  to  the  gossip-loving  towns 
people  that  Deacon  Hathaway  regarded  the  young  insur 
ance  clerk  with  distinct  disfavor,  and  had  forbidden  his 
daughter's  continuing  the  intimacy.  It  was  likewise 
well  known  that  the  missing  girl  had  frequently  met 
Ames  clandestinely. 

"Neither  Miss  Hathaway  nor  Derrick  Ames  was  seen 
after  the  discovery  of  the  bank  tragedy.  Ames  was  at 
his  boarding  house  at  noon  on  the  day  of  the  murder, 
but  did  not  return  to  supper.  His  room,  with  all  his 


A   STRANGE   DISAPPEARANCE.  29 

effects,  was  left  as  usual  and  gave  no  indication  that  he 
contemplated  a  hasty  departure.  Even  at  the  office  where 
he  was  employed  he  left  some  personal  effects  and  half  a 
month's  salary  was  to  his  credit. 

"In  the  case  of  Miss  Hathaway,  also,  there  are  abso 
lutely  no  indications  of  premeditated  departure.  Her 
sister  states  that  she  has  taken  not  even  a  wrap,  only  the 
clothes  she  wore  that  afternoon  as  she  left  the  house. 
Neither  man  nor  maiden  was  seen  by  any  person  to  leave 
Raymond.  No  vehicle  was  secured  for  either  of  them, 
and  no  one  answering  their  description  boarded  the  train 
at  the  Raymond  Station.  They  have  disappeared  as  com 
pletely,  as  suddenly  and  as  mysteriously  as  did  the  mur 
derer  of  Cashier  Hathaway. 

"The  knowledge  of  these  circumstances  has  intensified 
the  excitement  occasioned  by  the  murder  and  robbery. 
The  coincidence,  if  it  be  but  a  coincidence,  of  the  unpre 
meditated  elopement  of  Helen  Hathaway  upon  the  very 
day,  nay,  perhaps  the  very  hour,  that  her  aged  father 
was  stricken  by  the  bullet  of  the  assassin,  is  sufficiently 
startling  of  itself  to  cause  the  most  intense  excitement. 

''Is  there  any  connection  between  the  disappearance 
of  Derrick  Ames  and  Helen  Hathaway  and  the  shooting 
of  Cashier  Hathaway  and  the  subsequent  looting  of  the 
bank  vault?  Why  did  the  couple,  if  they  simply  ran 
away  to  get  married  without  the  parental*  sanction,  do  so 
manifestly  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  without  any  pre 
arranged  plans,  without  notification  to  even  their  inti 
mate  friends?  And  why,  if  they  went  innocently  away, 
have  they  failed  to  acquaint  any  one  with  their  present 
whereabouts,  when  they  must  be  aware  of  the  cruel  mur 
der  of  Miss  Hathaway's  good  father,  the  details  of  which 
have  been  published  far  and  wide,  not  only  in  the  pro 
vincial  newspapers,  but  throughout  the  metropolitan 
press? 

"There  is  not  a  resident  of  Raymond  who  will  hint  at 
even  the  possibility  of  any  guilty  knowledge  of  the  taking- 
off  of  her  father  by  Helen  Hathaway,  before  or  during 
her  hurried  flight.  For  although  regarded  as  unusually 
high-spirited  and  impetuous,  she  was  loving  and  lovable 


30  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

to  a  degree  and  the  idol  of  her  sister.  The  only  indiscre 
tion  that  can  be  attributed  to  the  missing  girl  was  her 
occasional  meetings  with  Derrick  Ames  without  the  sanc 
tion  of  her  father. 

"Her  companion  in  flight,  on  the  other  hand,  was  not 
especially  favorably  known  in  Raymond.  While  he 
came  to  the  town  with  excellent  credentials,  he  was  not 
a  favorite  in  any  particular  set  or  society.  Handsome  in 
face  and  figure,  an  athlete  of  considerable  local  repute, 
with  alternate  moods  of  extreme  depression  and  satirical 
good  humor,  he  was  such  a  one  as  might  be  expected  to 
turn  the  head  of  a  romantic  young  girl  like  the  absent 
Miss  Hathaway.  Ames  was  free  with  his  money,  and 
while  not  a  drinking  man,  in  the  sense  of  the  term  in 
this  part  of  the  country,  he  occasionally  wooed  the  wine 
cup  with  great  energy  and  originality.  He  had  enemies 
in  plenty  and  but  a  week  before  the  tragedy  had  abruptly 
resigned  the  lieutenancy  of  the  Raymond  Rifles  because 
of  a  trifling  disagreement  with  the  captain.  It  must  be 
stated,  however,  that  no  mean  or  ignoble  act  or  petty 
crime  had  ever  been  attributed  to  him,  the  chief  cause  of 
his  unpopularity  proceeding  from  his  reserve,  the  sharp 
ness  of  his  tongue  and  the  irascibility  of  his  temper. 

"Had  Derrick  Ames  disappeared  alone,  on  the  evening 
of  the  murder,  there  would  have  been  but  one  opinion  as 
to  his  guilt  or  innocence.  But  the  unaccountable  flight 
of  Miss  Hathaway — this  is  the  one  flaw  in  the  chain  of 
circumstantial  evidence.  Some  people  will  explain  this 
away  on  the  universal  theory  for  every  inexplicable 
action  of  the  human  mind — hypnotism.  It  is  said  that 
Ames  placed  Miss  Hathaway  within  the  spell  of  his  own 
powerful  will,  and  unknowingly,  unwittingly,  blindly 
obedient,  beautiful  Helen  Hathaway  accompanied  the 
cold-blooded  slayer  of  her  own  father  in  his  flight  from 
the  scene  of  his  crime. 

"Did  Ames  and  Miss  Hathaway  leave  Raymond  to 
gether?  While  .there  is  no  evidence  that  they  did,  the 
presumption  is  so  strong  as  to  compel  the  inference. 
In  any  event  Raymond  has  practically  convicted  Derrick 


A   STRANGE   DISAPPEARANCE.  31 

Ames  of  complicity,  if  not  actual  participation,  in  the 
murder  of  Roger  Hathaway. 

"It  is  possible  that  the  murder  was  not  premeditated, 
as  was  intimated  in  these  dispatches  yesterday.  Ames 
may  have  called  upon  the  cashier  at  the  bank,  to  plead 
again  his  suit  for  the  hand  of  Helen  Hathaway.  A  blunt 
refusal,  hasty  words,  a  bitter  quarrel,  Ames'  temper, 
quick  and  ungovernable,  a  brief  struggle,  the  fatal  shot 
and  the  older  man  lay  dead  upon  the  floor.  What  more 
natural  than  that  the  young  murderer,  fully  appreciating 
his  terrible  situation,  and  cognizant  of  the  large  amount 
of  ready  money  in  the  safe,  should  wrench  the  familiar 
bunch  of  keys  from  the  pocket  of  the  dead  cashier  and 
possess  himself  of  the  treasure?  It  requires  something  of 
a  stretch  of  the  imagination  to  fancy  the  assassin,  his 
hand  yet  reeking  with  the  blood  of  her  father,  inducing 
the  young  girl  to  accompany  him  in  his  flight  for  life  and 
liberty,  yet  it  is  not  impossible — and  in  the  belief  of 
many  it  is  just  what  Derrick  Ames  did  do. 

"There  is  but  the  faintest  possible  clew  as  yet  to  con 
nect  any  one  else  with  the  crime.  Besides  a  few  hotel 
arrivals — commercial  men  comparatively  well  known — 
one  stranger,  and  one  only,  is  believed  to  have  been  in 
Raymond  on  the  day  of  the  murder.  No  one  saw  him 
come,  no  one  saw  him  leave  the  town.  Inquiry  was 
made  at  the  depot,  the  telegraph  operator  states,  shortly 
after  8  o'clock,  as  to  the  time  of  departure  of  the  next 
train  south.  The  operator  did  not  notice  the  questioner 
particularly,  although  he  is  positive  he  was  a  stranger 
in  Raymond. 

"The  theory  of  a  prearranged  plot  to  rob  the  bank  on 
the  night  the  cashier  was  shot  has  been  assiduously 
worked  by  the  local  authorities.  It  was  known  that  there 
would  be  a  large  amount  of  money  in  the  bank  on  the 
night  preceding  the  paying  off  of  the  matured  county 
bonds.  Was  it  not  worth  while  for  an  organized  gang  of 
bank  robbers  to  plan  a  descent  on  the  Raymond  institu 
tion?  Was  it  not  possible  that  they  did  so  plan;  that 
they  had  already  secured  access  to  the  banking-room 
while  the  populace  was  watching  the  parade  in  the  after- 


32  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

noon;  that  they  were  awaiting  the  cover  of  darkness  to 
begin  work  upon  the  safe,  when  all  unexpectedly  the 
cashier  arrived  and  entered  the  bank;  that  the  robbers 
retreated  to  the  dark  closet;  that  here  they  remained  hid 
den  while  Mr.  Hathaway  performed  some  pressing  work 
upon  the  books,  meanwhile  sending  the  note  requesting 
the  presence  of  the  president;  that  while  he  stepped  to 
the  front  door  to  secure  a  messenger  for  the  letter  the 
robbers  may  have  conceived  the  daring  scheme  of  seizing 
the  cash  drawer  from  the  vault ;  that  the  cashier  returned 
while  they  were  in  the  very  act  of  executing  their  design ; 
that  he  rushed  to  his  desk  and  had  already  possessed 
himself  of  his  revolver,  when  he  was  seized  by  the  rob 
bers  and  shot  dead  before  he  could  succeed  in  making 
use  of  his  own  weapon,  which  was  subsequently  picked 
up  and  carried  off  by  the  robbers? 

"More  careful  investigations  of  the  scene  of  the  mur 
der  developed  the  fact  that  the  struggle  between  the 
cashier  and  his  assailant,  or  assailants,  must  have  been  not 
only  a  severe  one,  but  of  several  minutes'  duration. 
There  were  marks  of  violence  on  the  body  of  the  dead 
banker,  the  physicians  report,  which  must  have  been 
made  by  an  exceptionally  strong  man.  The  right  wrist 
showed  quite  severe  abrasions,  as  if  it  had  been  grasped 
fiercely  by  a  strong  hand,  and  on  the  other  side  of  the 
wrist  was  a  purple  mark  that  was  evidently  made  by 
a  seal  ring  pressed  into  the  flesh  by  the  tremendous  force 
with  which  the  hand  had  been  seized.  The  snow-white 
and  abundant  hair  of  Mr.  Hathaway  was  also  disheveled, 
when  the  body  was  first  discovered,  and  the  chain  to 
which  his  bunch  of  keys  had  been  attached  was  snapped 
off,  only  about  two  inches  remaining  upon  his  person. 
No  signs  of  a  weapon  or  any  burglarious  tools  were  dis 
covered  in  or  about  the  bank  premises,  but  evidence  of 
the  extreme  coolness  and  sang-froid  of  the  murderer  is 
afforded  by  the  fact  that,  apparently  in  searching  for 
suitable  paper  in  which  to  wrap  the  big  package  of  bills 
two  or  three  full  pages  of  the  big  bank  ledger  were  torn 
out  and  used  for  the  purpose. 

"Nothing  was  missing  from  the  person  of  the  dead 


A    STRANGE    DISAPPEARANCE.  33 

man,  except,  singularly  enough,  a  curiously  fashioned 
locket  which  Mr.  Hathaway  wore  as  a  watch  charm. 
It  contained  miniatures  of  his  two  daughters,  Louise  and 
Helen.  No  reason  for  its  being  carried  off  is  apparent. 
The  link  which  held  it  to  the  watch-chain  was  broken  as 
if  the  locket  had  been  violently  removed. 

"The  exact  amount  of  money  stolen  cannot  as  yet 
be  stated.  President  Felton  alleges  that,  until  the  trial 
balance  is  drawn  off,  it  will  be  impossible  to  give  figures. 
Certainly  not  less  than  $40,000  in  greenbacks  was 
secured,  and  probably  half  as  much  more  in  securities, 
which,  however,  are  not  negotiable  and  are  therefore 
worthless  to  the  robbers.  The  bank  is  perfectly  solvent, 
President  Felton  states,  and  will  resume  business  at  an 
early  date. 

"Mr.  Felton  is  well-nigh  prostrated  by  the  shock  of 
his  awful  discovery  on  the  evening  of  Memorial  Day  and 
has  aged  visibly  in  the  last  two  days.  He  does  not  attach 
so  much  importance  to  the  dual  disappearance  of  Derrick 
Ames  and  Helen  Hathaway  as  do  most  of  the  citizens, 
and  expresses  the  opinion  that  it  is  a  simple  elopement 
and  that  the  couple  will  return  shortly. 

"The  directors  of  the  savings  and  national  banks,  at  a 
meeting  this  morning,  authorized  the  offer  of  a  reward  of 
$4,000  for  the  capture  and  conviction  of  the  murderer  or 
murderers,  in  addition  to  the  purse  of  $1,000  'hung  up' 
by  the  town. 

'The  coroner's  inquest  will  be  begun  to-morrow." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  CORONER'S  INQUEST. 

For  a  town  the  size  of  Raymond,  3,ooo-odd  inhab 
itants,  the  Mansfield  County  court  house  is  an  unusually 
large  and  commodious  structure.  But  the  spacious  room 
is  not  nearly  adequate  to  the  demands  of  the  pushing 


34  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

crowd  that  seeks  admittance  to  the  inquest  that  has  been 
summoned  by  Coroner  Lord  to  sit  upon  the  body  of  the 
dead  cashier,  Roger  Hathaway.  George  Demeritt,  the 
town's  sole  day  police  force,  is  literally  swept  off  his  feet 
by  the  surging  assemblage,  and  in  less  than  five  min 
utes  after  the  throwing  open  of  the  doors  the  room  is  a 
solid  mass  of  perspiring  humanity. 

With  much  difficulty  Sheriff  Wilson  makes  a  passage 
for  the  dozen  witnesses  under  his  charge,  the  crowd  gaz 
ing,  with  the  sympathetic  impudence  of  an  inquest  audi 
ence,  at  the  statuesque  form  of  Miss  Hathaway,  heavily 
veiled,  and  the  bowed  figure  of  President  Felton  of  the 
Raymond  Bank. 

The  jury  selected  by  Coroner  Lord  files  in  from  the 
judges'  room,  and  after  the  customary  preliminaries  the 
autopsy  performed  by  Drs.  Robinson  and  Dodge  is  read 
by  the  latter.  The  document,  stripped  of  its  verbiage 
and  medical  terms,  alleges  that  Roger  Hathaway  died 
from  a  bullet  wound,  the  leaden  missile  having  entered 
the  left  breast  almost  directly  over  the  heart,  and  that 
death  must  have  been  instantaneous.  There  were  signs 
of  violence  on  the  person  of  the  dead  man,  a  severe  con 
tusion  on  the  forehead  that  might  have  been  inflicted  by  a 
blow  or  might  have  been  caused  by  the  fall  to  the  floor. 
There  were  also  slight  abrasions  on  the  right  wrist. 

Dr.  Dodge  states,  in  reply  to  an  inquiry  from  the  coro 
ner,  that  Mr.  Hathaway  had  probably  been  dead  an  hour 
when  he  reached  his  side.  Rigor  mortis  had  not  begun. 

"Mr.  Cyrus  Felton.'' 

There  is  a  craning  of  necks  in  the  court  room  as  the 
coroner  calls  to  his  feet  the  aged  bank  president.  Jack 
Ashley,  who  is  sitting  at  the  lawyers'  table,  jotting  down 
a  few  notes,  begins  to  take  a  lively  interest  in  the  case. 

Mr.  Felton  slowly  walks  to  the  witness  stand.  That  he 
is  greatly  moved  even  the  least  observant  in  the  throng 
can  but  notice,  and  his  hand  trembles  visibly  as  he 
replaces  his  pince-nez  and  turns  to  face  Coroner  Lord. 

The  usual  formal  questions  as  to  his  acquaintance  with 
the  dead  man,  his  connection  with  the  bank,  etc.,  are 
asked  and  answered. 


THE    CORONERS'    INQUEST.  35 

"I  visited  the  bank  in  response  to  a  note  which  I  found 
when  I  returned  home  from  my — from  the  postoffice," 
Mr.  Felton  states. 

"The  note  was  from  Mr.  Hathaway?" 

"It  was." 

"And  its  contents?" 

"The  note  merely  said:  'Come  to  the  bank  imme 
diately.'  " 

"Have  you  the  note  with  you?'' 

"No;  I  tore  it  up,"  replies  Mr.  Felton,  and  the  expres 
sion  which  accompanies  his  words  is  noted  by  Ashley, 
who  is  scanning  narrowly  the  countenance  of  the  banker. 

"The  note  had  been  left  at  my  house  a  short  while 
before  I  returned  home,  my  servant  tells  me,"  proceeds 
Mr.  Felton.  "I  went  at  once  to  the  bank."  The  witness 
has  grown  so  agitated  that  he  is  obliged  to  seat  him 
self,  and  his  voice  is  hardly  audible  in  the  stilled  room. 

"The  front  door  was  slightly  ajar  and  I  walked  through 
the  bank  to  the  directors'  room.  The  door  to  this  apart 
ment  was  locked;  I  unlocked  it  and  entered.  Mr.  Hath 
away  lay  face  downward  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  I 
should  think.  I  thought  he  might  have  fallen  in  a  shock 
and  went  to  lift  him  up,  when  I  saw  the  blood.  I  felt 
for  his  pulse,  but  there  was  no  motion."  The  voice  of 
the  witness  breaks  as  he  utters  these  words  and  he  covers 
his  face  with  his  handkerchief. 

"Were  there  any  evidences  of  a  struggle?"  the  coro 
ner  asks,  after  a  moment. 

"Yes.  Mr.  Hathaway's  office  chair  was  overturned 
and  the  directors'  chairs  were  disarranged.  One  of  the 
drawers  in  Mr.  Hathaway's  desk  had  been  pulled  so  far 
out  that  it  had  dropped  to  the  floor  and  the  contents 
were  spilled.  A  lot  of  old  ledgers  that  had  been  piled  in 
the  closet  were  toppted  over  into  the  room.  I  glanced 
into  the  closet  and  then  turned  my  attention  to  the  open 
vault.  I  found  the  cash  drawer  in  the  safe  withdrawn 
and  empty  except  for  a  couple  of  canvas  bags  of  silver 
and  nickels.  I  then  hastened  to  find  Sheriff  Wilson." 

"What  hour  was  it  when  you  entered  the  bank?"  asks 
Coroner  Lord. 


36  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"About  8:20  o'clock." 

"And  at  what  time  did  you  notify  Sheriff  Wilson?" 

Mr.  Felton  hesitates  a  moment  and  glances  inquiringly 
at  that  official.  "It  did  not  seem  more  than  a  minute 
that  I  spent  in  the  bank.  But  I  was  so  shocked — and 
I — and  I  stopped  to  gather  up  the  papers  on  the  floor — 
perhaps  it  was  five  minutes  before  I  got  to  the  hotel." 

"Did  you  notice  any  weapons  on  the  floor  of  the  cash 
ier's  room?" 

"No,  sir." 

"What  amount  of  money  do  you  estimate  was  stolen 
from  the  safe?" 

President  Felton  debates  a  moment,  as  if  making  a 
mental  calculation,  and  replies:  "At  least  $37,000  in 
currency  and  gold,  and  some  securities.  The  exact 
amount  of  the  latter  we  cannot  tell  until  we  have  listed 
our  papers." 

"That  is  all,  Mr.  Felton." 

A  suppressed  murmur  of  intense  interest  runs  around 
the  crowded  room  as  Louise  Hathaway  takes  the  witness 
stand.  As  she  raises  the  veil  that  has  concealed  her  fea 
tures  the  townspeople  marveled  at  the  composure  her 
marble  countenance  evinces.  Ashley  glances  at  her  with 
interest  and  draws  a  long  breath.  "Gad!  she's  a  beauty," 
he  decides,  and  then  drops  his  eyes  as  they  encounter 
the  calm  gaze  of  the  witness. 

Her  father  left  the  house  to  go  to  the  bank  about  6:30 
o'clock,  Miss  Hathaway  testifies.  Tea  was  served  at  6 
o'clock.  Her  sister  Helen  had  not  returned  at  that  time, 
but  at  her  father's  request  they  had  not  waited  the  tea, 
because  he  said  he  had  some  work  to  do  at  the  bank. 
It  was  an  unusual  thing  for  him  to  go  to  the  bank  even 
ings,  but  the  illness  of  the  teller  had  necessitated  extra 
work. 

"Miss  Hathaway,  do  you  know  where  your  sister  is?'' 
The  silence  in  the  court  room  is  intense  as  the  coroner 
asks  the  question. 

"My  sister  did  not  return  that  afternoon,"  declares 
Miss  Hathaway,  after  a  brief  pause.  "I  have  reason  to 
think  that  she  has  gone  with  Mr.  Ames  to  be  married." 


THE   CORONERS'    INQUEST.  37 

"And  you  do  not  know  where  they  now  are?" 

Miss  Hathaway  shakes  her  head,  as  her  fingers  clasp 
and  unclasp  nervously  in  her  lap.  The  ordeal  is  a  trying 
one. 

"When  did  you  last  see  your  sister?" 

"About  2  o'clock  in  the  afternoon." 

"And  when  did  you  last  see  Mr.  Ames?" 

A  slight  flush  replaces  the  pallor  for  a  moment;  then 
as  suddenly  recedes,  leaving  her  paler  than  before. 

"I  have  not  seen  Mr.  Ames  for  a  fortnight,"  she  replies 
in  a  tone  barely  audible. 

"Did  your  sister  indicate  to  you  her  intention  of  elop 
ing?"  is  the  next  question. 

"I  had  no  reason  to  think  that  she  contemplated  a 
clandestine  marriage.  But  I  should  prefer  not  to  dis 
cuss  the  matter  further,  Mr.  Lord,"  says  the  witness,  in 
evident  agitation.  "I  am  sure  Helen's  departure  can  have 
no  possible  connection  with — with  that  awful  deed.  It 
was  only  an  unfortunate  coincidence  that  they  went  away 
on  that  afternoon.  I — I  am  sure  they  will  return  in  due 
time." 

Coroner  Lord  glances  irresolutely  at  the  state's  attor 
ney,  and  after  a  moment's  deliberation  permits  Miss 
Hathaway  to  retire. 

Sheriff  Wilson,  the  next  witness,  describes  minutely  the 
appearance  of  the  bank  and  vault  and  of  the  body  of 
the  dead  cashier. 

Sarah  Johnson,  the  maid  at  Mr.  Felton's  residence,  tes 
tifies  that  the  note  referred  to  by  Mr.  Felton  was  left  at 
the  house  shortly  before  8  o'clock  by  a  lad  named  Jimmie 
Howe.  A  few  minutes  later  a  stranger  inquired  for  Mr. 
Felton  at  the  house.  There  is  a  slight  buzz  of  excite 
ment  among  the  audience  at  this  first  mention  of  the 
presence  of  a  stranger  in  the  village  on  the  evening  of 
the  tragedy. 

"How  do  you  know  he  was  a  stranger?"  sharply  in 
quires  the  coroner. 

"For  the  reason  that  when  I  asked  him  which  Mr. 
Felton  he  wished  to  see  he  replied  that  he  did  not  know 


38  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

there  were  two  Mr.  Feltons."  That  evidence  is  conclu 
sive.  It  is,  so  far  as  the  audience  is  concerned. 

"He  asked  where  he  could  find  Mr.  Felton,  and  I  told 
him  perhaps  at  his  office  in  the  bank  building,"  con 
tinues  Sarah. 

Miss  Johnson  is  closely  questioned  as  to  the  demeanor 
of  the  stranger,  but  she  knows  little  of  importance,  as  she 
had  not  seen  the  visitor's  face.  He  was  of  medium 
height,  she  says,  and  his  voice  was  pleasant.  Sheriff 
Wilson,  who  has  first  learned  of  this  clew,  smiles  pat 
ronizingly  upon  Ashley  and  the  other  newspaper  men. 

A  bright-faced  lad  of  12  is  Jimmie  Howe,  whom  Coro 
ner  Lord  next  calls  to  the  stand.  Jimmie  was  playing 
on  the  bridge  when  Mr,  Hathaway  called  to  him  from 
the  bank  door  and  asked  him  to  take  a  note  to  Mr. 
Felton  and  to  hurry  about  it.  After  he  delivered  the  note 
he  went  home. 

Prof.  George  Black,  Edward  Knapp  and  three  others, 
who  were  in  Prof.  Black's  room  in  the  bank  building, 
testify  to  hearing  a  shot  about  8  o'clock,  but  whether 
before  or  after  that  hour  they  cannot  agree. 

Alden  Heath,  the  telegraph  operator  at  the  depot, 
stated  that  some  one — he  was  busy  at  his  key  at  the  time 
— asked  somewhere  around  8  o'clock  when  the  next  train 
left.  He  answered  without  looking  up,  and  when  he 
did  glance  at  the  window  the  inquirer  was  gone.  It  was 
a  strange  voice;  of  that  he  was  positive. 

George  Kenney,  who  states  that  he  is  the  station 
agent  at  Ashfield,  is  next  sworn.  His  testimony  estab 
lishes  the  probable  fact  that  Derrick  Ames  and  Helen 
Hathaway  boarded  the  midnight  train  for  New  York. 

There  is  an  involuntary  but  quickly  suppressed  ex 
clamation  from  the  witnesses.  Miss  Hathaway  is  trem 
bling  and  Ralph  Felton,  who  is  sitting  near  her,  is  sav 
agely  biting  his  mustache. 

As  Coroner  Lord  calls  the  name  of  Richard  Chase  and 
the  stalwart  warden  of  the  State  prison  at  Windsor 
appears  on  the  witness  stand  there  is  a  hush  of  expect 
ancy. 

"Ernest  Stanley,  a  convict  in  the  Vermont  State  prison, 


THE    CORONERS'   INQUEST.  39 

was  released  at  noon  of  Memorial  Day,''  Warden  Chase 
says  succinctly.  "He  asked  for  and  was  given  a  ticket 
to  Raymond,  and  left  on  the  north-bound  afternoon 
train.  He  was  five  feet  ten  inches  in  height,  of  medium 
build,  dark  complexion,  smooth  face,  and  had  closely 
cropped  dark  hair.  He  wore  a  light  tweed  suit  and  a 
straw  hat." 

As  Mr.  Chase  concludes  his  testimony  the  coroner 
consults  for  a  few  moments  with  the  state's  attorney  and 
then  summons  Ralph  Felton,  son  of  President  Felton, 
and  the  bookkeeper  of  the  Wild  River  Savings  Bank. 

As  the  young  man  steps  to  the  stand  Ashley  glances 
at  him  interestedly,  and  after  a  good  look  decides  that 
he  does  not  like  him.  There  is  a  certain  shiftiness  of  eye 
that  the  New  Yorker  does  not  fancy,  and  the  notes  which 
he  takes  of  the  witness'  testimony  are  nearly  verbatim. 

Young  Felton  answers  in  the  briefest  phrases  the  ques 
tions  of  the  coroner.  He  had  seen  no  strangers  in  the 
bank  in  the  last  few  days.  He  had  last  seen  Mr.  Hath 
away  the  afternoon  before  the  tragedy,  when  the  bank 
closed  for  the  day.  On  the  afternoon  of  Memorial 
Day 

The  witness  stops  abruptly  and  a  flush  overspreads  his 
features  as  he  nervously  bites  his  tawny  mustache. 

"On  the  afternoon  of  Memorial  Day,"  invites  the  coro 
ner. 

"I  was  around  town  as  usual,"  finishes  Felton. 

For  some  reason  the  momentary  hesitation  of  the  wit 
ness  apparently  impresses  Mr.  Lord,  and  he  seems  dis 
posed  to  make  minute  inquiry. 

"Where  did  you  say  you  were  on  the  afternoon  of 
Memorial  Day?"  he  again  interrogates. 

Ralph  Felton  looks  straight  at  the  coroner  an  instant, 
and  then  his  gaze  wanders  over  the  stilled  room  and 
finally  rests  upon  his  father,  who,  roused  from  the  impas 
sive  attitude  in  which  he  has  sunk  after  completing  his 
own  testimony,  casts  a  startled  look  upon  his  son. 

The  sudden  hush  that  has  involuntarily  accompanied 
Mr.  Lord's  question  is  intensified,  as  father  and  son  gazo 
at  each  other,  apparently  oblivious  of  the  unanswered 
coroner, 


40  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

CHAPTER  VII. 

FATHER  AND  SON. 

An  almost  imperceptible  raising  of  the  eyebrows  by 
the  elder  man,  and  Ralph  Felton  turns  quickly  to  the 
coroner. 

"Really,  Mr.  Lord,  I  cannot  furnish  a  detailed  state 
ment  of  my  every  movement  during  the  last  week,"  he 
says,  nonchalantly.  "I  witnessed  the  procession,  or  at 
least  the  local  post,  on  its  way  to  the  depot  to  meet  the 
Ruggbury  contingent,  and  later  went  to  the  Exchange 
for  dinner.  In  the  afternoon  I  was  in  the  billiard  room 
of  the  hotel,  and  I  believe  I  visited  the  postoffice  in  the 
evening." 

"What  time  did  you  last  see  Mr.  Hathaway?''  The 
persistence  of  the  coroner  in  questioning  the  bookkeeper 
is  inexplicable  to  the  audience,  who  have  not  observed 
the  little  slips  of  paper  that  State's  Attorney  Brown  has 
passed  along  the  table  to  Mr.  Lord. 

"About  noon  on  the  day  of  the  murder." 

"Where?" 

Ralph  Felton  is  for  the  first  time  manifesting  signs  of 
impatience.  "He  was  in  the  bank.  I  went  to  get  some 
thing  which  I  had  left  there,  and  while  I  was  there  Air. 
Hathaway  came  in.  I  left  him  there  and  a  short  time 
afterward  saw  him  in  the  procession." 

"Mr.  Felton,  where  were  you  between  7:45  and  8:30 
o'clock  the  evening  of  Tuesday?" 

A  dull  red  replaces  the  slight  pallor  on  the  face  of  the 
young  man. 

"Mr.  Lord,  I  cannot  say  where  I  was  during  that  par 
ticular  time.  I  have  my  own  personal  reasons — not  con 
nected  with  this  case,  I  assure  you — for  not  desiring  to 
answer  your  question." 

The  murmur  which  has  begun  to  overspread  the  room 
is  quickly  but  only  temporarily  hushed  as  the  coroner 
announces: 


FATHER    AND    SON.  41 

"The  inquest  is  adjourned  until  to-morrow  morning  at 
9  o'clock." 


"You  know  why  I  did  not  answer  Coroner  Lord's 
question.  I  am  tired  of  this  hypocrisy.  I  simply  will  not 
go  on  the  stand  again — and  that  settles  it!'' 

Within  the  richly  furnished  library  of  Cyrus  Felton's 
home  the  inquisition  so  abruptly  broken  off  by  Coroner 
Lord  has  been  resumed. 

The  president  of  the  Raymond  National  Bank  now 
bears  little  resemblance  to  the  bowed  old  man  who,  with 
trembling  lips  and  pallid  brow,  testified  regarding  the 
murder  of  Cashier  Hathaway  a  few  hours  before.  There 
is  an  angry  flush  upon  his  face  and  a  stern  setting 
of  the  chin  that  causes  one  straight  line  to  mark  the 
location  of  his  lips. 

At  the  last  defiant  words  of  his  son  a  spasm  as  of 
sudden  pain  for  a  moment  distorts  his  patriarchal  face, 
and  his  hand  involuntarily  presses  his  heart. 

"I  am  going  to  leave  Raymond — at  once — to-night. 
Leave  as  Derrick  Ames  left,"  continued  Ralph  Felton, 
with  an  imprecation.  "It's  no  use  talking.  My  mind  is 
made  up  and  you  should  be  the  last  man  to  urge  me 
to  remain.  You  know " 

"Ralph,  this  is  madness,"  interrupts  his  father.  "There 
can  be  no  necessity  for  your  leaving  town,  least  of  all 
while  matters  are  as  they  are.  The  bank " 

"The  bank  needs  both  of  us — I  don't  think,"  rejoins 
the  younger  man  flippantly.  "As  the  boodle  is  gone 
I  guess  you  can  get  along  without  a  bookkeeper  for  a 
time — maybe  forever.  But  go  I  shall,  and  money  I  must 
have.  Oh,  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,"  as  Mr. 
Felton  opens  his  lips.  "It  doesn't  make  any  difference 
where  it  has  gone.  Suffice  it  to  say,  it  is  planted.  If  you 
have  ever  had  any  experience  with — but  here  it  is  getting 
on  toward  n  o'clock,  and  at  12:10  I  must  take  the  Mon 
treal  express.  'I  don't  propose  to  board  it  here.  I  shall 
drive  to  South  Ashfield.  Now,  understand  me,  father," 
as  Cyrus  Felton  again  seeks  to  interrupt  him,  "it  is  just 


42  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

as  much  for  your  interest  for  me  to  be  a  couple  of  thou 
sand  miles  from  Raymond  as  it  is  mine.  It  is  bound  to 
come  out — why,  what's  the  matter?" 

Once  again  that  ashen  pallor  accompanies  a  spasm  of 
severest  pain,  and  this  time  Cyrus  Felton  emits  a  slight 
groan  as  his  fingers  sink  into  the  heavily  upholstered 
arms  of  the  sleepy-hollow  chair  into  which  he  has  sunk. 

"Nothing — nothing  but  a  pleurisy  attack,"  he  faintly 
replies. 

There  is  silence  for  a  moment,  broken  only  by  the 
sonorous  ticking  of  the  mantel  clock. 

"Well,  the  money?" 

"Ralph,  you  know  that  I  can  ill  afford  to  spare  any 
considerable  amount  just  now.  But  your  safety  must,  of 
course,  be  considered,  and  I  will  endeavor  to  send  you 
funds  later.  What  I  can  spare  now  ought  to  be  sufficient 
to  start  life  anew  in  some  western  city.'' 

Ralph  Felton  smiles  sardonically  as  his  father  steps 
to  the  little  safe  set  in  the  wall,  and,  moving  the  screen 
from  the  front,  turns  the  combination.  He  lounges 
toward  the  receptacle,  and,  leaning  on  the  screen,  gazes 
down  at  his  father,  who  has  withdrawn  one  of  the  two 
drawers  which  the  safe  boasts  and  is  running  over  a 
package  of  bills.  The  contents  of  the  lower  drawer  are 
exposed  by  the  withdrawal  of  the  upper  one,  and  the 
light  from  the  chandelier  is  reflected  back  from  some 
shining  substance  in  the  till.  It  catches  young  Felton's 
eye  and  his  long  arm  passes  over  the  stooping  figure  of 
his  father  and  picks  the  gleaming  metal  from  the  drawer. 
It  is  a  loaded  revolver  of  the  bull-dog  variety,  32  caliber, 
and  one  chamber  has  been  discharged. 

Cyrus  Felton  raises  his  head.  The  shining  little  engine 
of  destruction  in  the  clasp  of  his  son  is  almost  before  and 
on  a  level  with  his  eyes. 

With  a  shudder  the  elder  man  turns  his  head  and 
slowly  and  laboriously  rises  to  his  feet.  He  seems  to 
have  suddenly  aged  even  in  the  last  few  moments. 

Ralph  Felton  examines  the  revolver  critically,  looks  at 
his  father's  averted  face,  and,  without  speaking,  lays  the 
weapon  in  the  drawer.  There  is  silence  in  the  room, 


FATHER  ,AND    SON.  43 

broken  at  last  by  the  almost  apologetic  tones  of  the  father. 
"How  will  you  reach  South  Ashfield?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  Sam  must  drive  me  over  with  the  mare.  I  will 
start  him  up  now." 

As  his  son  leaves  the  room  Cyrus  Felton  sinks  into 
an  easy  chair  and  his  head  drops  upon  his  bosom.  Who 
can  tell  the  thoughts  that  surge  through  his  troubled 
mind  at  the  moment?  The  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the  con 
crete  driveway  beside  the  window  arouses  him  from  his 
reverie,  and  a  moment  later  Ralph  Felton  enters,  a 
satchel  in  his  hand. 

"Well,  father,  Sam  is  ready  and  I  must  go.  We  shall 
have  little  more  than  an  hour  to  make  the  ten  miles  and 
catch  the  express.  Good-by;  it  is  all  right,  sir;  believe 
me,  father/'  the  younger  man  drops  his  disengaged  hand 
not  unkindly  on  the  other's  shoulder,  "my  sudden  de 
parture  will  do  nobody  here  any  harm,  and  least  of  all 
will  it  affect  you.  One  thing  I  will  say;  I  will  find  the 
scoundrel  who  took  Helen  Hathaway  from  Raymond,  if 
he  is  above  ground,  and  when  we  meet  he  will  have 
occasion  to  remember  that  time."  Ralph  Felton's  face 
is  darkened  by  a  savage  scowl  as  he  speaks,  and  he  raises 
a  clenched  fist  with  a  gesture  so  suggestive  that  his 
father  involuntarily  steps  back.  "Yes,  I  have  two  objects 
in  cutting  the  town.  One  reason  you  know,  the  other 
is  to  seek  and  find  the  hound  who  has  stolen  Helen 
Hathaway  from  me.  I  cared  for  her  as  I  shall  never 
love  another  woman,  and  I  meant  to  have  her.  Now " 

The  musical  chime  of  the  clock  begins  to  strike  the 
hour.  Ralph  Felton  seizes  the  package  of  bills  that  lies 
upon  the  table  and  places  it  in  an  inner  pocket. 

"I  will  return  sometime,  father,  when  this  bank  affair 
has  ceased  to  be  a  subject  of  investigation,"  he  says,  with 
his  hand  on  the  door-knob.  "Good-by.  Just  keep  a  stiff 
upper  lip  and  you'll  be  all  right.  I'm  off." 

The  outer  door  closes  with  a  sharp  click  and  a  moment 
later  the  impatient  stamping  of  hoofs  is  succeeded  by 
the  even  footfalls  of  the  fastest  mare  in  Mansfield  County. 

As  the  sound  grows  fainter  and  fainter  Cyrus  Felton 
suddenly  starts  as  if  aroused  from  a  stupor. 


44  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Why  did  I  let  him  go?  Idiot  that  I  am!  It  is  mad 
ness — worse  than  madness.  It  is  confession.  Am  I 
losing  my  senses,  that  I  did  not  insist  upon  his  remain 
ing  and  completing  his  testimony?  At  the  worst  it  could 
never  be  proved.  The  wages  of  sin!  The  wages  of  sin!'' 
he  groans,  as  he  sinks  back  in  his  chair  and  buries  his 
face  in  his  hands. 


"Mr.  Ralph  Felton  to  the  stand/'  orders  Coroner  Lord. 

As  on  the  preceding  day,  the  court  room  is  packed 
with  the  people  of  Raymond.  There  is  a  craning  of 
necks  toward  the  settees  reserved  for  witnesses.  Ralph 
Felton  is  not  there,  and  there  is  a  death-like  stillness  as 
Coroner  "Lord  again  calls  this  now  most  interesting  of 
witnesses. 

"Mr.  Coroner!"  The  lank  figure  of  the  station  agent 
at  South  Ashfield  elevates  itself  above  the  crowd.  "If 
it  please  your  honor,  Ralph  Felton  boarded  the  Montreal 
express  at  South  Ashfield  last  night." 

Of  course  there  is  a  sensation,  a  murmur  of  voices  that 
the  coroner  quickly  checks.  The  few  remaining  wit 
nesses  are  unimportant  and  the  inquest  is  adjourned  until 
afternoon. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
A   PROPOSITION    OF   PARTNERSHIP. 

The  usual  congress  of  village  gossips  is  in  session 
to-night  at  the  Exchange  Hotel.  It  is  the  fourth  day 
since  the  Raymond  Bank  affair,  and  the  details  of  the 
tragedy  are  discussed  with  an  animation  and  a  wealth  of 
clew  that  brings  a  smile  to  the  face  of  John  Barker,  the 
New  York  detective,  who  retreats  to  a  quiet  corner  of  the 
hotel  veranda  to  finish  his  cigar  and  muse  upon  the 
affair  with  the  calm  contemplation  characteristic  of  men 
in  his  calling. 

The  detective's  face  expresses  a  shade  of  annoyance  as 


A    PROPOSITION   OF    PARTNERSHIP.  45 

Jack  Ashley  ascends  the  steps  to  the  veranda,  draws  a 
chair  opposite  his,  lights  a  cigar  and  tilts  his  seat  back 
at  a  comfortable  angle. 

"You  are  John  Barker,  the  detective,"  began  Ashley. 
Barker  assents  with  a  nod. 

"1  haven't  a  card  with  me,  but  my  name  is  Jack  Ash 
ley,  and  I  am  attached  to  the  staff  of  the  New  York 
Hemisphere."  Barker  looks  duly  impressed. 

"You  are  an  ordinary  detective,  I  presume?"  Barker 
stares.  "What  I  mean  is,  if  you  will  pardon  my  frank 
ness,  you  are  not  a  Sherlock  Holmes  or  a  M.  Lecocq?" 
It  is  apparent  from  his  face  that  the  detective  is  in  doubt 
whether  to  laugh  or  express  his  displeasure.  He  com 
promises  with  a  faint  smile  and  accepts  the  proffered 
cigar. 

"My  reason  for  asking,"  goes  on  Ashley,  "is  that  I 
have  a  proposition  to  offer  you." 

Barker  strikes  a  match  to  touch  off  his  weed.  "That 
proposition  is " 

"That  we  work  this  bank  case  together."  Barker 
drops  the  lighted  match  and  gazes  at  his  new  acquaint- 
ance  in  astonishment. 

"Have  another  match,"  remarks  the  other,  passing 
it  over. 

The  detective  lights  his  cigar  and  puffs  away  on  it  for 
some  moments  in  silence.  "I  am  not  in  the  habit  of 
taking  in  partners,"  he  observes  finally. 

"I  always  take  a  deep  interest  in  an  affair  like  the 
Hathaway  case/'  resumes  Ashley,  without  reference  to 
the  other's  remark.  "In  fact,  my  special  line  on  the 
Hemisphere  has  been  the  running  down  of  mysterious 
crimes.  I  have  trailed  quite  a  number  of  them,  and  you 
will  pardon  my  egotism  when  I  say  I  have  been  quite 
successful  in  my  dual  capacity  of  sleuth  and  newspaper 
man."  Barker  looks  a  trifle  bored. 

"To  be  candid,  however,  this  case  is  a  bit  too  big  for 
me  to  handle  alone.  It  spreads  out  too  much.  It  is  too 
much  of  a  job  for  one  man  to  look  after." 

"Indeed?"  The  irony  in  the  detective's  voice  is  thinly 
veiled.  He  says: 


46  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Then  on  the  strength  of  your  intimation  that  you  are 
a  devilish  clever  fellow — you  will  pardon  my  frankness 
this  time — I  am  asked  to  take  in  an  assistant  who  will 
gladly  share  with  me  the  $5,000  reward  in  the  event  of 
the  murderer  being  apprehended." 

"No;  I  sha'n't  bother  about  the  reward.  I  am  simply 
looking  for  glory." 

"You  are  young  in  the  newspaper  business?" 

"About  twelve  years." 

"And  looking  for  glory?" 

Ashley  laughs.  "For  my  paper;  not  for  myself."  He 
passes  over  a  telegram  received  that  day.  It  read  as 
follows: 


"Jack  Ashley,  Raymond,  Vt.:  Work  up  case  at  any  ex 
pense,  and  discover  murderer  if  possible.  Chambers." 

"Now,"  says  Ashley,  as  he  replaces  the  dispatch  in  his 
pocket,  "I  will  tell  you  why  I  think  it  would  be  to  your 
advantage  to  join  forces  with  me."  Barker  evinces 
some  interest. 

"I  am  in  possession  of  some  facts  which  you  not  only 
do  not  know,  but  are  not  likely  to  get  hold  of  unless  I 
enlighten  you." 

"Ah!"  The  detective  draws  his  chair  nearer  his  com 
panion  and  glances  about  to  make  sure  there  are  no 
outside  listeners. 

"When  I  finish,  if  you  consider  my  information  as  val 
uable  as  I  appraise  it,  you  can  do  as  you  please  about 
the  partnership  idea.  At  any  rate  you  will  be  so  much 
ahead.  Come  up  to  my  room.  We  will  not  be  disturbed 
there."  When  they  are  comfortably  seated  and  fresh 
cigars  lighted  Ashley  begins  his  story. 

"I  have  run  onto  two  clews.  One  of  them  I  consider 
important;  the  other  less  so.  By  the  way,  how  long 
have  you  been  in  town?  Come  in  on  the  after-dinner 
train?" 

"Yes,  I  have  acquainted  myself  with  the  known  facts 
in  the  case  and  the  result  of  the  coroner's  inquest.  De- 


A   PROPOSITION   OF   PARTNERSHIP.  47 

ceased  came  to  his  death  at  the  hands  of  some  person 
unknown." 

"But  who  will  be  known  ere  long.  But  to  resume. 
As  you  know,  a  man  called  at  the  house  of  Cyrus 
Felton  shortly  before  8  o'clock  of  the  night  of  the  killing. 
To  the  inquiry  of  the  housemaid  as  to  which  Mr.  Felton 
was  wanted  the  man  replied  that  he  'did  not  know  there 
were  two.'  Not  long  after  8  o'clock  that  same  evening 
a  man  appeared  at  the  ticket  office  of  the  railroad  station 
and  inquired  when  the  next  train  left.  These  incidents, 
while  not  startling  in  themselves,  seem  to  prove  that  in 
each  case  the  questioner  was  a  stranger  to  Raymond. 
Every  one  around  these  parts  knows  that  there  are  two 
Feltons,  father  and  son,  and  the  natives  are  also  pre 
sumed  to  know  that  there  is  no  night  train  through  the 
town  before  11:50." 

"Very  well  reasoned/'  remarks  Barker. 

"As  you  also  know,  on  the  afternoon  of  Memorial  Day 
a  chap  named  Ernest  Stanley  was  liberated  from  the 
State  prison  at  Windsor,  after  serving  two  of  a  three 
years'  sentence  for  forgery.  Despite  the  fact  that  Ray 
mond  was  not  his  home  and  that  he  had  not,  so  far  as 
known,  a  friend  or  acquaintance  in  the  place,  and  con 
trary  to  the  advice  of  the  warden,  who  took  an  interest 
in  the  fellow,  he  Bought  a  ticket  to  this  town  and  started 
north  on  the  afternoon  train.  That  latter  fact  was  proved 
by  the  ticket  agent  at  Windsor,  who  sold  him  the  ticket 
and  saw  him  board  the  train.  I  went  to  Windsor  this 
forenoon,  after  the  inquest,  saw  a  photograph  of  this 
Stanley,  and  secured  a  pretty  accurate  description  of 
him."  ' 

"But  there  is  no  evidence  that  he  left  the  train  at  this 
station.  Or  if  he  did " 

"He  could  have  been,  as  I  believe  he  was,  the  visitor 
at  Felton's  house.'' 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  contends  the  detective.  "On 
the  evening  of  Memorial  Day  the  agent  of  a  granite  man 
ufacturers'  journal,  published  at  Chicago,  stopped  at  this 
hotel.  He  arrived  on  the  afternoon  train  from  the  north, 
and  after  supper,  the  clerk  told  me  when  I  quizzed  him, 


48  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

he  inquired  where  Cyrus  Felton  lived.  Felton,  you 
know,  is  the  principal  owner  in  the  Wild  River  Granite 
Quarries.  It  is  more  than  likely,  is  it  not,  that  he  was 
the  visitor  at  the  Felton  residence?'' 

"Still  he  may  not  have  called  that  night." 

"True.  Admitting  the  caller  to  have  been  Stanley, 
what  then?  A  motive  must  be  assigned." 

"We  will  discuss  that  later.  For  the  present  suffice  it 
to  be  known  that  Stanley  was  sentenced  to  State  prison 
for  forging  the  name  of  Cyrus  Felton  two  years  ago." 

"Well,  what  of  it?  If  Stanley's  thoughts  were  of 
revenge  they  were  apparently  directed  against  Felton, 
not  the  man  who  was  murdered." 

"That  is  precisely  the  point  that  is  not  clear  to  me," 
confesses  Ashley. 

"Now,  listen.  Here's  a  proposition  for  you:  If  Stan 
ley  was  not  concerned  in  the  bank  affair,  what  was  he 
doing  at  6  o'clock  next  morning  asleep  in  the  bushes  in 
a  lonely  gorge  near  South  Ashfield  village?" 

"The  devil!" 

"With  a  package  of  papers  clutched  fast  in  his  hands, 
about  the  size  that  a  bundle  of  treasury  notes  and  securi 
ties  would  make." 

"You  know  he  was  there?'' 

"I  met  him." 

Barker  is  thoughtful.  "You  said  nothing  to  the  author 
ities  or  in  your  dispatches  about  the  incident?" 

"No.  I  didn't  consider  it  worth  while.  The  authori 
ties  were  already  scouring  the  country  round  about,  and 
I  did  not  exploit  it  in  my  dispatches  because  I  concluded 
to  save  it  for  a  longer  and  better  story  when  we  run  down 
the  criminal — beg  pardon,  when  the  criminal  is  run 
down.  But/'  continues  Ashley,  as  Barker  remains  silent, 
"that  is  the  clew  to  which  I  attach  the  less  importance. 

"I  had  heard  from  some  source  that  Ralph  Felton  had 
been  seen  at  this  hotel  a  good  share  of  Memorial  Day, 
and  I  started  in  on  a  pumping  expedition,  beginning 
with  John  Thayer,  the  clerk.  Thayer  was  noticeably 
uncommunicative;  I  thought  I'd  bluff  him  a  bit,  so  I 
remarked:  'Well,  you've  concluded  to  tell  me  what  you 


A    PROPOSITION    OF    PARTNERSHIP.  49 

know,  eh?'  The  bluff  appeared  to  work,  for  he  flushed 
a  little  and  replied:  'I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  if  you  will 
agree  to  keep  it  out  of  the  paper.'  As  I  had  suspended 
all  dispatches  to  the  Hemisphere  pending  the  discovery 
of  a  story  worth  filing,  I  readily  enough  agreed  to  refrain 
from  publishing  his  secret  to  the  world.  Then  he  ex 
tracted  a  promise  that  I  should  not  divulge  a  word  to 
any  one  in  the  village. 

''  'Ralph  Felton  is  as  innocent  of  that  crime  as  you  or 
I.'  asserted  Thayer  when  all  the  conditions  for  secrecy 
had  been  satisfactorily  arranged. 

"  'That  is  possible,  but  why  did  he  refuse  to  answer 
the  coroner  and  why  did  he  cut  the  town?'  said  I. 

"  'He  had  a  good  reason  for  wanting  to  keep  dark, 
and  I  suppose  he  ran  away  to  prevent  being  compelled 
to  testify  where  he  was  Memorial  Day  afternoon  and 
evening.' 

"  'You  know  where  he  was,  then?' 

"  'Yes;  he  was  here  at  the  hotel.  I  tell  you  this  because 
I  want  you  to  know  that  he  is  innocent  Felton  is  a  good 
friend  of  mine,  and  I  thought  perhaps  if  you  knew  how 
the  facts  were  you  might  see  your  way  clear  to  letting 
him  down  as  easy  as  possible  in  the  paper.'  I  assured 
him  that  my  specialty  was  setting  folks  right  and  then 
Thayer  told  off  the  following  story : 

"About  2  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  Memorial  Day 
a  woman  arrived  at  Raymond  on  the  afternoon  train 
from  the  south,  came  to  this  hotel  and  registered  as  'Isa 
bel  Winthrop.'  She  was  superbly  dressed  and  displayed 
an  abundance  of  jewels.  According  to  Thayer,  whose 
head  was  completely  turned  by  her  appearance,  she  was 
magnificently,  phenomenally  beautiful.  You  can  take 
that  for  what  it  is  worth.  Thayer  assigned  her  a  room 
and  showed  her  to  it.  As  she  passed  in  she  requested 
him  to  send  a  messenger  to  acquaint  Ralph  Felton  that 
a  lady  desired  to  see  him.  Finding  him  was  an  easy 
task,  as  he  was  at  that  moment  playing  poker  in  a  room 
in  the  hotel.  Felton  appeared  somewhat  surprised  when 
called  out,  but  threw  up  the  game  and  went  to  the 
woman's  room.  That  was  the  last  Thayer  saw  of  him 


50  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

for  an  hour,  when  Felton  left  the  hotel.  His  face  was 
flushed  and  he  seemed  to  be  laboring  under  strong  excite 
ment.  Before  he  left  he  called  Thayer  to  one  side.  'John,' 
said  he,  'if  you  are  a  friend  of  mine  say  nothing  about  my 
caller  to-day.  You  understand?' 

"I  remarked  casually:  'Then  he  returned  to  the  hotel 
that  afternoon?' 

"  'Oh,  yes,'  said  he. 

"'And  was  there  during  the  evening?' 

"  'Yes,  I  noticed  him  in  the  office  at  the  time  the  alarm 
over  the  bank  affair  was  sounded.  He  left  the  hot^l  then 
and  I  did  not  see  him  again  that  night.' 

"  'Well,'  I  asked  pointedly,  'can  you  swear  that  Felton 
was  in  the  hotel  between  7:45  and  8:30  the  evening  of 
Memorial  Day?'  I  never  saw  a  chap  so  taken  back  as 
was  Thayer.  He  could  not  locate  Felton  at  any  particu 
lar  time  during  the  evening;  moreover,  he  could  not  say 
positively  that  the  Winthrop  woman  spent  the  evening 
in  her  room.  He  supposed  she  did.  The  only  point  that 
Thayer  was  sure  of  was  that  the  woman  left  for  the  south 
on  the  first  train  the  next  morning. 

"  'Thayer,'  said  I,  consolingly,  'the  only  way  I  see 
to  clear  your  absent  friend  is  to  find  this  Winthrop 
woman.  Describe  her  to  me  as  accurately  as  you  can.' 
He  did  so  and  I  have  a  pretty  good  pen  portrait  of  the 
unknown  in  my  memorandum-book,  marked  'Exhibit 
A.' 

"'Oh,  by  the  way,'  said  Thayer,  'she  left  a  handker 
chief  in  the  room.' 

'  'The  deuce  she  did !  I  must  have  that,'  said  I.  And 
here  it  is,"  said  Ashley,  passing  over  a  dainty  lace  crea 
tion  for  Barker's  inspection.  In  one  corner  is  the  letter 
"I"  curiously  embroidered  in  silk. 

"There  are  thousands  of  such  handkerchiefs,"  com 
ments  the  detective. 

"Yes,  but  not  scented  with  that  variety  of  perfume." 
The  detective  sniffs  it.  "Did  you  ever  smell  anything 
just  like  that?"  queries  Ashley.  Barker  allows  that  he 
never  did  and  his  acquaintance  with  scents  is  an  extended 
one. 


LOUISE    HATHAWAY.  51 

"If  Isabel  Winthrop  is  found,"  declares  Ashley,  "that 
handkerchief,  and  especially  that  perfume,  may  play  an 
important  part  in  her  discovery."  Barker  smiles. 

"Truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,  my  boy,''  retorts  Ash 
ley.  "Well,  what  do  you  think  of  my  clews?" 

The  detective  wraps  himself  in  cigar  smoke  and 
thought  for  several  minutes.  Then  he  extends  his  hand. 

"I  believe  I'll  accept  your  proposition."  Ashley 
returns  the  pressure  warmly. 

"I  think  we'll  make  a  strong  pair  to  draw  to/'  he  says. 

"But,"  adds  Barker,  "you  will  see  that  I  am  more  or 
less  disinterested  when  I  tell  you  that  I  incline  to  the 
belief  that  neither  of  your  clews,  good  as  they  are,  is  the 
correct  one." 

"No?    Whom  do  you  suspect?'' 

Barker  rises.  "Ashley,"  says  he,  "you  are  young, 
enthusiastic  and  clever.  How  are  you  fixed  for  pa 
tience?" 

"Job  was  a  chronic  kicker  in  comparison,"  is  the 
prompt  reply. 

"Well,  then,  about  to-morrow  evening  I  shall  be  ready 
to  talk  with  you  and  lay  out  the  campaign.  Satisfac 
tory?" 

"Perfectly.  Let's  go  down  to  the  billiard  room  and 
knock  the  balls  around  for  an  hour." 


CHAPTER  IX. 

LOUISE  HATHAWAY. 

"Good  afternoon.    Will  you  walk  in?" 

"Thank  you.  I  will  detain  you  but  a  short  time."  Jack 
Ashley  follows  Miss  Hathaway  into  the  half-lighted 
drawing  room,  accepts  the  offered  chair  and  seats  him 
self  beside  the  big  bay  window.  She  sinks  quietly  into 
a  chair  opposite  him  and  glances  at  the  bit  of  pasteboard 
in  her  hand. 

Ashley  has  seen  Louise  Hathaway  at  the  inquest  and 


52  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

has  remarked  that  she  is  an  unusually  attractive  woman. 
And  now,  as  his  glance  for  an  instant  sweeps  over  her, 
he  votes  her  superb. 

Brief  as  is  his  admiring  gaze,  it  is  critical.  It  rests 
upon  the  twined  mass  of  golden  hair,  drifts  over  the  face 
to  the  long  white  throat  and  the  strong  shoulders,  thence 
to  the  faultless  figure  and  sweep  of  limb.  She  is  as  differ 
ent  from  her  sister  Helen  as  the  placid  morning  is  unlike 
the  beauteous  night.  Louise  is  the  morning.  There  is 
a  strong  sunlight  in  her  glorious  blue  eyes,  but  now 
they  are  shadowed  by  the  grief  of  the  last  few  days. 

She  lifts  her  eyes  from  the  visiting  card.  "You  are 
a  reporter,"  she  says,  with  a  shade  of  weariness  in  her 
voice. 

"I  have  the  honor  of  representing  the  New  York  Hem 
isphere.  I  do  not  desire  to  cause  you  any  annoyance, 
but  there  were  some  matters  not  brought  out  in  the 
inquest  which  I  wish  to  investigate." 

"And  you  have  come  all  the  way  from  New  York  for 
this?" 

"No;  I  have  been  spending  my  vacation  in  Raymond, 
and,  of  course,  when  the  news  of  the  tragedy  reached  our 
paper  I  was  instructed  to  look  after  it.  I  know  that  the 
errand  on  which  I  have  come  must  be  a  painful  one  for 
you  to  discuss,  but  I  assure  you  that  I  have  more  than 
a  reportorial  interest  in  the  case/' 

"Yes?"    She  looks  at  him  inquiringly. 

"You  must  be  aware  that  the  case  is  an  unusual  one," 
he  goes  on.  "My  interest  in  it  has  grown  into  a  deter 
mination  to  run  down  and  bring  to  justice  the  slayer  of 
your  father." 

He  tries  to  read  in  the  glance  she  gives  him  a  trace 
of  gratitude,  of  approval.  Failing,  he  decides  that  Louise 
Hathaway  is  an  extraordinary  young  woman. 

"Have  you  discovered  anything — anything  that  the 
local  authorities — they  are  so  stupid — have  overlooked?" 
she  asks,  and  he  fancies  there  is  something  of  anxiety  in 
the  calm,  slow  tones  of  a  very  musical  voice. 

"Yes,"  he  replies.  "We,  the  detective  and  myself,  are 
engaged  on  several  clews.  But  it  is  necessarv  that  we 


LOUISE   HATHAWAY.  53 

should  be  in  possession  of  every  bit  of  knowledge  obtain 
able  concerning  all  the  persons  who  have  any  bearing, 
near  or  remote,  upon  the  case." 

Miss  Hathaway  turns  upon  Ashley  a  pair  of  blue  eyes 
in  whose  depths  he  can  read  naught  but  purity  and 
honesty.  "I  fear  I  can  tell  you  little,"  she  says. 

"Derrick  Ames " 

"Is  innocent,"  she  interrupts. 

"I  am  of  the  same  opinion.  Derrick  Ames  and  your 
sister  were  lovers?"  She  nods. 

"Your  father,  I  am  told,  strongly  opposed  the  young 
man's  attentions.  There  was  a  more  favored  suitor." 

Miss  Hathaway  regards  him  with  mild  surprise.  "You 
knew  then " 

"What  I  have  come  to  ask  you  about  more  particu 
larly,"  finishes  Ashley,  unblushingly,  regarding  his  digres 
sion  from  the  truth  as  a  bit  of  diplomacy. 

"I  was  not  very  well  acquainted  with  him,"  avers  Miss 
Hathaway,  "although  we  'have  lived  in  the  same  town 
nearly  all  our  lives.  But  father  regarded  him  as  a  model 
young  man,  and  until  lately  encouraged  his  attentions  to 
Helen  in  every  way." 

"Now,  who  the  deuce  is  she  talking  about?"  wonders 
Ashley,  who  has  simply  chanced  it  in  his  assertion  that 
there  was  a  more  favored  suitor  than  Derrick  Ames. 

"I  never  fancied  him,  and  Helen  disliked  him  exceed 
ingly,"  continues  Miss  Hathaway.  "But  the  more  she 
discouraged  him  the  more  persistent  he  became.  One 
night  Helen  came  to  my  room  in  tears.  They  had  had 
a  fearful  scene,  she  stated.  She  should  marry  him  or 
none,  he  had  declared,  and  had  made  all  sorts  of  wild 
threats." 

"I  did  not  know  he  was  such  a  desperate  character," 
remarks  Ashley  tentatively. 

"I  do  not  believe  the  people  of  this  town  knew  what 
his  true  character  was.  Helen  said  he  seemed  to  have 
torn  off  the  mask  that  night  and  that  his  face  was  that 
of  a  demon.  He  was  wild  with  rage  and  left  the  house 

with  curses.     I  sometimes  think "     Miss  Hathaway 

pauses  and  her  face  wears  a  troubled  expression. 


54  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"What  on  earth  does  she  think?"  meditates  Ashley, 
who  is  becoming  a  trifle  bewildered. 

"I  sometimes  think  it  was  his  hand  that  struck  down 
our  poor  father.  But  then  he  could  have  had  no  motive, 
and  there  was  in  my  eyes  a  reason  for  his  action  which 
other  people  could  not  surmise." 

"And  yet  that  action  seemed  unexplainable?"  hazards 
Ashley. 

"To  others,  yes.  It  seemed  perhaps  a  confession  of 
guilt.  But  after  what  Helen  told  me  I  firmly  believe  that 
he  has  gone  to  search  for  her.  And  when  he  and  Der 
rick  Ames  meet,  I  shudder  to  think  of  what  may  happen." 

Ashley  sees  the  light  at  last.  So  Ralph  Felton  was  the 
favored  suitor — Ralph  Felton,  whom  nearly  every  one  in 
Raymond  regarded  as  a  model  young  man,  and  who, 
despite  his  unaccountable  flight,  found  plenty  of  people 
willing  to  explain  it  in  a  dozen  charitable  ways. 

"You  say  that  until  lately  Mr.  Hathaway  regarded 
Felton's  attentions  to  your  sister  with  favor.  Had  he 
any  reason  for  suspending  his  approval?" 

"I  imagine  so.  During  the  last  month  or  so  he  rarely 
spoke  of  him,  and  once,  when  his  name  was  mentioned 
at  table,  he  frowned." 

"I  suppose  you  know  that  the  case  looks  black  against 
Ames;  that  not  half  a  dozen  people  in  the  town  have  a 
good  word  to  say  for  him?'' 

"I  do  not  care  what  is  said  against  Derrick  Ames.  I 
am  sure  that  'he  is  innocent  of  any  connection  with  my 
father's  death.  What  he  was  to  others  I  cannot  say,  but 
in  the  eyes  of  Helen  and  myself  he  was  a  noble-hearted 
young  man,  incapable  of  an  unworthy  thought  or  act" 

"She  pleads  for  him  as  if  for  a  lover,"  thinks  Ashley, 
regarding  with  admiration  the  girl  before  him.  The  flash 
in  the  blue  eyes  and  the  flush  in  the  cheeks  tell  of  warm 
sympathies  and  a  loyal  heart. 

"Your  sister  never  intimated  to  you  the  likelihood  of 
an  elopement?"  Ashley  inquires. 

"Never.  Had  she  a  thought  of  such  a  thing  I  should 
have  known  it.  We  kept  nothing  from  each  other." 

"You  knew  that  they  met  clandestinely?" 


LOUISE    HATHAWAY.  55 

"I  did." 

Ashley  shifts  the  line  of  questioning  to  return  to  it  at 
a  more  favorable  opportunity.  It  is  apparent  that  it  is 
becoming  painful  to  the  girl. 

"What  were  the  relations  between  your  father  and  Mr. 
Felton — the  elder  Felton?" 

"Almost  wholly  of  a  business  nature." 

"They  were  friends?" 

"Yes.  I  had  noticed,  however,  that  during  the  last 
few  weeks  they  did  not  meet  as  often  as  before.1' 

"Was  Mr.  Felton  at  your  house  within  a  short  time 
previous  to  the  murder?" 

"He  was  here  the  evening  before  it.'' 

"Anything  out  of  the  ordinary  in  the  visit?" 

"Nothing,  except  that  Mr.  Felton  appeared  to  be 
angry." 

"Will  you  make  an  effort  to  recall  what  happened  on 
that  particular  evening?"  Louise  is  thoughtful  for  a  few 
moments. 

"I  fear  I  can  recall  but  little,"  she  replies  slowly.  "I 
was  passing  through  the  hall  on  my  way  upstairs,  and 
as  I  stepped  by  the  library  door  I  glanced  in.  Father 
was  sitting  in  his  desk  chair  and  Mr.  Felton  was  stand 
ing  near  the  door,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand." 

"Did  you  hear  any  of  the  conversation?"  queries  Ash 
ley,  with  the  keenest  interest  in  the  new  scent. 

"Let  me  see — yes;  I  remember  Mr.  Felton  said:  'I 
can't  and  I  won't!'  I  think  those  were  his  words." 

"Did  he  appear  to  be  excited?" 

"Perhaps  so.    He  spoke  very  loudly." 

"And  your  father's  reply — did  you  hear  that?" 

"Yes:  I  remember  I  paused  an  instant  from  curiosity. 
Father  said,  and  I  recall  that  his  voice  sounded  rather 
harsh :  'Then  there  is  but  one  alternative.'  Then  I  went 
upstairs  to  my  room.  A  few  minutes  afterward  I  heard 
the  front  door  slam.  Father  did  not  retire  until  several 
hours  afterward." 

"It  was  not  his  practice  to  do  so?' 

"No;  he  usually  retired  early.     I  dgn't  see  what  this 


66  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

has  to  do  with  the  mystery — but  then  I  am  not  a  detective 
or  a  newspaper  man." 

"It  may  have  much  to  do  with  it,"  murmurs  Ashley. 
Miss  Hathaway  looks  at  him  inquiringly. 

"What  do  you  think?"  she  asks. 

"Candidly,  I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  he  confesses. 

"Will  you  permit  me  to  turn  inquisitor  for  a  few  mo 
ments?"  Miss  Hathaway  requests.  "There  are  one  or 
two  questions  I  should  like  to  have  answered." 

"I  will  answer  a  thousand,"  replies  Ashley  cheerfully, 
as  he  meets  the  direct  gaze  of  the  young  lady. 

"Is  there  any  evidence  against  Derrick  Ames,  other 
than  was  brought  out  at  the  coroner's  inquest?" 

Ashley  notes  the  anxiety  in  the  voice  and  hesitates. 
It  may  be  cruel,  but  it  also  may  be  profitable,  so  he 
replies  slowly  to  Miss  Hathaway: 

"I  regret  to  say  that  there  are  a  great  many  things 
about  Ames'  movements  that  will  have  to  be  explained 
away." 

Miss  Hathaway  covers  her  face  with  her  hands.  A 
less  keen  observer  than  Ashley  could  note  the  hopeless 
ness  in  the  face  that  she  finally  lifts. 

"But  you  said  that  you  believe  him  innocent/'  she 
exclaims,  almost  eagerly. 

"I  said  so,  surely,"  admits  Ashley.  "But  in  order  to 
prove  his  innocence  it  will  be  necessary  to  produce  him." 

A  silence.  Miss  Hathaway's  troubled  gaze  is  fixed 
upon  him.  His  quick  brain  has  been  working  and  he  has 
arrived  at  a  conclusion.  "This  woman  believes  in  the 
possibility  of  Ames'  guilt  and  she  has  some  reason  other 
than  the  evidence  that  has  been  produced.  Ah,  why 
didn't  I  think  of  that  before?" 

"Miss  Hathaway,"  says  Ashley,  speaking  deliberately, 
"you  said  a  moment  ago  that  you  would  do  anything  to 
assist  me  in  tracing  the  slayer  of  your  father."  She  nods. 

"Then  will  you  show  me  the  letter  which  you  received 
from  your  sister  upon  her  arrival  in  New  York?" 

If  Ashley  expects  any  result  from  this  haphazard  ques 
tion  he  is  assuredly  not  prepared  for  what  really  happens. 
Miss  Hathaway's  face  turns  ashen  and  a  great  fear 


MR.    BARKER'S    DISCOVERIES.  &7 

springs  into  her  eyes.  She  rises  to  her  feet,  her  hands 
clenched. 

"Who  told  you  I  received  a  letter?"  she  demands  in  a 
trembling  voice. 

"We  newspaper  men  have  many  means  of  obtaining 
information,"  replies  Ashley. 

"Mr.  Ashley,"  the  girl  says — she  is  quite  calm  now — 
"I  appreciate  your  efforts  fully  and  thank  you  for  them. 
God  grant  that  they  may  be  crowned  with  success.  As 
for  my  sister's  letter,  I  cannot  show  it  to  you,  as  I  have 
destroyed  it.  Its  contents  I  shall  never  reveal." 

"I  shall  hope  to  see  you  again  before  I  leave  Ray 
mond,"  remarks  Ashley,  as  he  rises  to  take  his  leave;  for 
the  interview  has  reached  its  natural  limits. 

"I  am  at  home  to  you  at  any  time,"  responds  Miss 
Hathaway,  acknowledging  gravely  his  pleasant  adieu. 

As  Ashley  saunters  back  to  the  hotel  his  mind  is  in  a 
more  bewildered  condition  than  at  any  other  time  since 
he  has  begun  work  on  the  Hathaway  case. 

"Now  that  I  am  in  it,  I  shall  stay,  if  it  occupies  the 
rest  of  my  natural  life,"  he  determines.  "What  a  mag 
nificent  young  woman!  Fortunate  that  I  am  not  sus 
ceptible,  else  I  should  already  be  idiotically  in  love  with 
this  queen  of  the  morning,  whose  sad  blue  eyes  haunt 
me  still,  in  the  words  of  the  old  song." 

Oh,  the  self-sufficiency  of  youth! 


CHAPTER  X. 

MR.  BARKER'S  DISCOVERIES. 

After  supper  Ashley  retreats  to  the  most  secluded 
corner  of  the  veranda  and  amuses  himself  blowing  smoke 
rings  over  the  railing.  Barker  has  been  gone  ever  since 
morning.  He  must  have  struck  a  warm  trail.  Twilight 
gathers  ere  Ashley  beholds  the  familiar  figure  swinging 
down  the  street  toward  the  'hotel. 


58  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

The  detective  draws  a  chair  beside  that  of  Ashley,  and, 
after  making  certain  that  no  listeners  are  about,  remarks 
complacently:  "My  boy,  I  believe  we  are  on  the  trail 
of  Roger  Hathaway's  murderer." 

"Indeed!  I  confess  that  I  am  deeper  in  the  woods 
of  speculation  than  ever.'' 

"Ah,  but  when  I  give  you  the  result  of  my  day's  work 
I  think  you  will  find  yourself  out  of  the  forest  and  on 
the  broad  highway  of  conviction." 

"Then  you  must  have  put  in  a  more  profitable  after 
noon  than  I  spent,  and  I  accomplished  considerable.  Had 
your  supper?" 

"No.  Guess  I'll  run  in  and  have  supper  and  then  we'll 
adjourn  to  my  room  for  a  smoke  talk." 

Half  an  hour  later  finds  the  New  Yorkers  comfort 
ably  settled  in  Barker's  second-floor. 

"I  may  as  well  state  at  the  outset  that,  as  you  inti 
mated  when  you  introduced  yourself  last  evening,  I  am 
not  a  Sherlock  Holmes,"  begins  Barker.  "But  I  have 
had  considerable  experience  in  ferreting  out  criminals. 
A  good  memory  for  faces,  an  extensive  acquaintance  with 
the  brilliants  and  lesser  lights  of  the  crook  world,  a 
knack  of  putting  two  and  two  together  with  a  view  to 
obtaining  four  as  a  result,  more  or  less  analytical  abili 
ties,  an  excellent  physique,  a  fair  amount  of  sand  and  an 
unlimited  stock  of  patience  are  my  qualifications  for 
the  profession  upon  which  I  have  thus  far  brought  no 
discredit" 

"Pretty  good  stock  in  trade,  I  should  say,"  com 
ments  Ashley. 

"Thank  you.  Now,  every  detective  waits  patiently  for 
what  he  regards  as  his  big  case.  I  think  this  Hathaway 
affair  is  mine — or  ours,  as  we  are  working  together. 
Now,  I'll  get  down  to  business  and  tell  you  what  I  have 
discovered  to-day.  We  may  as  well  begin  with  a  com 
prehensive  study  of  the  cast  of  characters.  Unfortu 
nately,  three  of  the  leading  ones  are  beyond  our  reach." 

"Then  you  figure  Derrick  Ames  extensively  in  the 
case?'' 

"Rather.    We  will  begin  with  him  and  consider  his 


MR.   BARKER'S   DISCOVERIES.  59 

probable  relation  to  what  is  destined  to  be  a  celebrated 
case. 

"It  is  unfortunate  that  the  people  in  the  world  whose 
photographs  one  is  likely  to  want  at  some  time  or 
another  are  the  very  people  who  seldom  run  to  pictures," 
resumes  Barker.  "There  isn't  a  picture  of  Ames  in  ex 
istence.  So  far  as  known  he  never  had  one  taken.  Nor 
are  there  any  photos  of  Helen  Hathaway  to  be  had.  The 
only  portraits  of  her  in  existence  are  the  miniature  in  the 
locket  missing  from  the  dead  cashier's  watch-chain  and 
a  crayon  portrait  which,  I  am  informed,  hangs  in  a  room 
at  her  late  home. 

"I  find  that  Ames  was  regarded  as  an  odd  stick  by  the 
discriminating  inhabitants  of  Raymond — principally  be 
cause  he  did  not  associate  with  them  more  than  was 
absolutely  necessary.  He  is  said  to  be  well  educated 
and  is  of  a  high-strung,  poetic  temperament.  Heaven 
knows  how  he  came  to  locate  in  such  a  prosy  town  as 
Raymond,  but  the  explanation  of  his  remaining  here  as 
long  as  he  did,  is  simpler;  he  was  apparently  devoted  to 
Helen  Hathaway.  I  say  apparently  for  want  of  knowl 
edge  of  what  his  exact  sentiments  were.  Of  his  early 
history  I  learned  little,  save  that  he  came  here  some  three 
years  ago  from  New  York  State,  studied  law  with  a  local 
counsellor,  and  finally  took  an  excellent  position  with  the 
Vermont  Life  Insurance  Company. 

"Oddly  enough,  the  one  male  companion  that  Ames 
chose  was  a  chap  about  as  opposite  in  temperament  and 
every  other  way  as  one  can  imagine.  Sam  Brockway  is 
the  name  of  the  fellow,  and  he  is  employed  as  a  cutter 
in  the  sheds  of  the  Wild  River  Granite  Company.  And 
Ames  hunted  him  up  only  when  he  got  into  one  of  his 
periodical  fits  of  the  blues,  and  the  two  would  start  off 
on  a  racket  that  would  last  several  days.  It  was  this 
habit  of  drinking,  combined  with  a  cynical  skepticism 
upon  matters  and  things  dear  to  the  heart  of  a  deacon, 
that  made  Ames  objectionable  to  Mr.  Hathaway,  and 
the  antipathy  was  cordially  returned.  Helen,  however, 
was  a  loyal  little  woman,  and  despite  her  father's  com 
mands  she  continued  her  intimacy  with  Ames.  An  elope- 


60  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

ment  was  a  logical  sequence  of  such  a  companionship, 
and  were  it  not  for  certain  damning  evidence  that  I 
extracted  from  this  Brockway  and  discovered  myself,  I 
should  dismiss  Ames,  temporarily  at  least,  as  having 
no  connection  with  the  bank  case." 

"Yet  you  say  Brockway  is  a  friend  of  Ames',"  remarks 
Ashley. 

"He  is.  But  while  a  good-hearted  chap  and  loyalty 
itself,  he  is  not  especially  astute  and  by  shrewd  ques 
tioning  and  judicious  bluffing  I  discovered  that  he  was 
probably  the  last  man  who  saw  Ames  before  he  disap 
peared  from  Raymond,  Roger  Hathaway  excepted.'' 

"You  mean " 

"I  mean  that  Derrick  Ames  was  seen  to  enter  the  Ray 
mond  National  Bank  about  8  o'clock  on  the  evening 
of  Memorial  Day." 

"H'm!  That  is  serious.  Yet  his  mission  may  have 
been  an  innocent  one." 

"True.  But  to  continue.  This  forenoon  I  visited  the 
station  at  Ashfield,  where  Ames  and  the  girl — there  can 
be  no  question  that  they  were  the  pair — boarded  the  night 
express  south.  While  I  was  lounging  about  the  station, 
waiting  for  the  train  back  to  Raymond,  my  eye  caught 
the  glitter  of  an  object  lying  between  the  inside  rail  of 
the  track  and  the  south  end  of  the  platform,  and  partly 
under  the  latter.  It  was  a  revolver,  32  caliber,  and  one 
chamber  was  empty.  With  that  for  a  basis,  I  questioned 
the  station  agent  on  another  tack,  and  he  finally  suc 
ceeded  in  remembering  that  just  as  the  train  pulled  into 
the  station  that  memorable  night  the  girl  handed  Ames 
his  coat,  and  as  he  threw  it  over  his  arm  an  object  dropped 
from  one  of  the  pockets,  which  Ames  quickly  recovered 
and  replaced  in  the  coat  as  he  and  his  companion  clam 
bered  aboard  the  train.  Might  not  this  revolver  have 
been  the  object  dropped  by  Ames,  and  might  he  not  when 
he  put  it  back  in  his  coat  have  slipped  it  into  the  sleeve, 
through  which  it  dropped  as  he  stepped  upon  the  train?'' 

"Well,  the  theory  is  ingenious,  even  if  wrong,"  muses 
Ashley. 

"I  clinched  it  a  bit  more,"  continues  Barker.    "Where 


MR.    BARKER'S   DISCOVERIES.  61 

had  Ames  and  the  girl  boarded  the  train?  The  station 
agent  remembered  that  it  was  at  the  south  end  of  the 
platform,  as  the  New  York  sleeper  was  made  up  next 
behind  the  engine  and  baggage  car." 

"I  beg  to  remark,"  puts  in  Ashley,  "that  the  fact  of 
one  chamber  in  a  revolver  being  empty  is  not  at  all 
unusual.  I  have  in  my  pocket  a  gun  in  that  condition, 
but  as  it  is  a  38  caliber,  that  lets  me  out  of  any  connec 
tion  with  the  tragedy.'' 

"Of  course,"  smiles  Barker,  "I  take  all  these  bits  of 
evidence  for  what  they  are  worth.  While  waiting  for  my 
train  I  argued  in  thiswise:  Derrick  Ames  was  in  love 
with  Helen  Hathaway,  and  the  attachment  resulted  in 
an  elopement.  Neither  was  seen  after  2  o'clock  of 
Memorial  Day,  and  the  inference  is  that  they  were  to 
gether  somewhere  all  the  afternoon  and  evening.  The 
elopement  was  apparently  unpremeditated,  as  they  took 
nothing  with  them,  so  far  as  known,  except  the  clothes 
they  wore.  There  must  have  been  some  cause  for  such 
an  impromptu  exit.  People  do  not  elope  that  way  no 
matter  how  love-mad  they  may  be.  Where  was  Helen 
when  Ames  was  seen  going  into  the  bank?  Waiting 
for  him  somewhere.  What  was  his  errand?  To  make 
a  final  appeal  for  the  girl's  hand,  with  an  elopement  in 
mind  as  the  last  resort,  perhaps.  But  even  failing  in 
that,  why  elope  that  particular  night?  There  must  have 
been  a  cause  for  hurrying  him  away.  But  if  you  assume 
that  Ames  committed  the  crime,  even  as  the  upshot  of  a 
fierce  quarrel,  even  perhaps  in  self-defense,  you  must 
figure  him  a  moral  monstrosity,  for  only  such  could  strike 
down  a  father  and  elope  subsequently  with  the  daughter. 
And  then  there  is  the  missing  money.  You  see  it  argues 
a  villainy  more  despicable  than  a  man  like  Ames  could 
have  been  guilty  of." 

"Yet  pathology  records  even  more  singular  instances 
of  moral  distortion." 

"Even  so.  But  is  it  not  more  reasonable  to  believe  that 
Ames  may  have  been  only  a  witness  to  the  murder,  or 
a  spectator  on  the  scene  of  the  tragedy  after  it  had  oc 
curred,  and  that  he  was  hurried  away  by  the  horror  of 


62  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

the  affair?  But  in  either  event  would  he  not  have  argued 
that  to  fly  would  be  the  worst  possible  thing  he  could  do? 
I  confess  that  when  I  arrived  at  Raymond  I  was  in  doubt 
as  to  Ames'  possible  guilt,  but  my  afternoon's  investiga 
tions  have  about  convinced  me  that  Derrick  Ames  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  death  of  Cashier  Hathaway." 

"Then  you  must  have  substituted  some  other  person 
as  the  object  of  your  suspicion." 

"Yes;  but  the  substitution  is  not  especially  recent.  Be 
fore  I  give  you  the  result  of  my  afternoon  labors  let  me 
tell  you  of  a  discovery  that  I  made  yesterday,  not  three 
hours  after  my  arrival  in  town. 

"After  I  had  posted  myself  from  the  stenographic 
notes  of  the  inquest  I  dropped  into  the  bank  to  have  a 
talk  with  the  officials.  President  Felton  took  me  into  the 
directors'  room,  where  the  tragedy  occurred,  and  I  sat 
in  the  cashier's  chair  and  glanced  around  to  get  a  few 
bearings.  While  Felton  was  retelling  his  story  of  the 
finding  of  Hathaway's  body  I  toyed  with  a  blotter  on  the 
desk.  It  was  the  ordinary  blotter,  larger  than  the  aver 
age,  with  the  advertisement  of  an  insurance  company  on 
one  side.  As  I  glanced  carelessly  at  it  I  noticed  that 
it  had  taken  up  the  ink  of  some  unusually  plain  charac 
ters. 

"Felton  was  called  out  of  the  room  for  a  moment  and 
I  slipped  the  blotter  in  my  pocket  to  examine  it  at  my 
leisure.  When  I  returned  to  the  hotel  I  made  an  inves 
tigation,  and  I  discovered — but  I  will  let  you  see  for 
yourself.  Hand  me  that  small  mirror  on  the  wall." 

Ashley  does  so.  The  detective  takes  his  prize  from 
a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  pocket,  smooths  it  flat  on  the 
table,  and  places  the  mirror  perpendicularly  before  it. 
Then  he  draws  the  lamp  over  and  remarks  complacently: 
"Look  here  upon  this  picture!" 

And  this  is  what  Ashley  sees  as  he  gazes  upon  the 
reflecting  surface.  There  are  three  groups  of  characters. 
The  first  group  reads: 

"Come  to  the  bank  immediately " 

The  second: 

"Your  personal  account  overdrawn " 


A   SIFTING   OF   EVIDENCE.  63 

And  the  third: 

"These  things  I  charge  you  fail  not,  Cyrus  Felton,  at  the 
peril  of  your  good  name.  Roger  Hathaway." 

"Jove!  It  reads  like  an  accusation!"  cries  Ashley, 
dropping  back  into  his  chair. 

"It  is  an  accusation!"  declares  the  detective,  with  the 
ring  of  triumph  in  his  voice. 


CHAPTER  XL 

A  SIFTING  OF  EVIDENCE. 

Both  men  smoke  on  in  a  brief  silence  that  Ashley 
breaks  with  an  inquiring  "Well?" 

"Much,"  is  Barker's  smiling  response.  "Now,  my 
boy,"  he  adds  briskly,  as  he  extracts  a  bunch  of  writing 
paper  from  his  grip  and  sharpens  his  pencil,  "tell  me 
everything  you  know  concerning  the  dramatis  personae 
in  this  drama.  We  will  get  our  facts  together,  and  then 
I'll  give  you  my  theories — for  I  have  more  than  one.  Go 
ahead." 

When  Ashley  has  exhausted  his  stock  of  information 
and  has  hazarded  one  or  two  ingenious  theories,  the  de 
tective  leans  back  in  his  chair  and  for  the  space  of  five 
minutes  says  not  a  word.  Finally  he  turns  to  Ashley. 

"This  Hathaway  mystery,"  he  begins,  "is  either  sim 
plicity  itself  or  it  is  shrouded  in  a  veil  that  only  the 
patient  search  and  unceasing  effort  of  months  will  lift. 
My  first  glance  at  the  case  led  me  to  believe  that  the 
murder  was  the  work  of  a  professional,  so  swiftly  had  it 
been  accomplished  and  so  completely  had  the  work  of 
the  operator  been  covered  up.  But  the  most  earnest 
search  has  failed  to  discover  the  presence  in  town  on 
Memorial  Day  of  any  person  who  could  possibly  be 
regarded  as  a  suspicious  character,  except  Ernest  Stan 
ley,  of  whom  more  anon. 

"Then  the  deed  must  have  been  committed  by  some 


64  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

one  in  Raymond.  Thus  far  we  have  evidence  affecting 
four  men — Derrick  Ames,  Cyrus  Felton,  Ralph  Felton, 
and  Ernest  Stanley.  If  two  of  the  four  were  implicated 
it  could  have  been  only  the  Feltons,  father  and  son.  I  do 
not  say  that  any  of  the  four  is  the  guilty  man.  But  a 
chain  of  evidence  must  be  forged  about  the  slayer  of 
Roger  Hathaway,  and  in  order  that  this  chain  shall  be 
complete,  minus  not  a  single  link,  it  becomes  necessary 
for  us  to  establish  the  innocence  of  these  four  men,  if 
they  are  innocent,  as  well  as  the  presumptive  guilt  of  a 
fifth  party,  if  a  fifth  party  committed  the  crime.'' 

"In  other  words,  we  are  hampered  by  a  superabund 
ance  of  clews." 

"Exactly.  I  will  pardon  your  interruption,  but  no 
more  of  them,  unless  they  are  good  ones.  Now,  your 
attention." 

"Roger  Hathaway  was  killed  in  his  office  in  the  bank 
on  the  evening  of  Memorial  Day,  some  time  between 
7:45  and  8:30  o'clock.  No  definite  minute  or  five  min 
utes  can  be  fixed.  Two  of  our  characters  were,  we  know, 
and  the  other  two  may  have  been,  at  the  bank  between 
7:45  and  8:30.  To  begin  with  Ames.  Sam  Brockway 
tells  me  that  he  saw  Ames  enter  the  bank  after  Hatha 
way  had  handed  a  note  to  the  boy,  Jimmie  Howe.  Brock- 
way  did  not  stay  to  see  Ames  come  out;  when  the  latter 
did  emerge  he  was  unseen.  It  is  not  unreasonable  to 
assume  that  Ames  killed  Hathaway  as  the  climax  of  a 
bitter  quarrel  over  the  latter's  daughter,  and  that,  to 
facilitate  his  escape,  he  helped  himself  to  the  bank's  funds. 
But  it  is  unreasonable  to  assume  that  subsequently  he 
induced  the  daughter  to  elope  with  him.  That  is  the 
weak  link  in  that  chain." 

"But  suppose  that  the  elopement  was  already  under 
way;  that  everything  had  been  arranged  for,  hour  of  de 
parture,  route  and  conveyance,"  debates  Ashley.  "Would 
not  Ames  argue  that  solitary  flight,  and  a  failure  to 
carry  out  the  prearranged  plans  must  weigh  heavily 
against  him?  An  elopement  is  an  excellent  excuse  for 
leaving  town  hurriedly,  you  know." 

"Possible,"  returns  the  detective.      "Now,  the  letter 


A   SIFTING   OF   EVIDENCE.  65 

which  you  say  Louise  Hathaway  received  from  her  sister, 
but  the  contents  of  which  she  refuses  to  reveal,  must 
have  contained  some  reference  to  Ames  which  Miss 
Hathaway  has  reasons  for  concealing.  At  any  rate,  there 
is  good  ground  for  suspecting  that  Ames  knows  some 
thing  of  the  murder  of  Roger  Hathaway,  whether  or  no 
his  own  hand  was  stained  with  the  cashier's  blood.  Now," 
says  Barker,  turning  to  the  blotter  and  the  mirror  on 
the  table,  and  propping  up  the  reflector  with  the  water 
pitcher,  look  that  over  carefully,  Ashley,  and  tell  me  what 
you  find.'' 

As'hley  draws  his  chair  up  to  the  table  and  examines 
critically  the  characters  on  the  blotter  as  reflected  in 
the  mirror. 

"All  of  the  words  which  are  distinguishable  were  not, 
when  blotted,  on  the  same  sheet  of  paper,"  he  asserts. 
"At  least  two  and  perhaps  three  sheets  of  paper  were 
used.  The  words,  'your  personal  account  overdrawn,' 
must  have  been  at  the  bottom  of  one  sheet  and  those 
with  the  signature  attached  upon  another,  but  whether 
top,  middle,  or  bottom  of  the  page  is  of  no  consequence." 

"Very  good,"  approves  Barker.  "That  was  the  first 
conclusion  I  arrived  at  when  I  examined  the  blotter. 
Now,  how  about  those  words,  'Come  to  the  bank  imme 
diately'?" 

"Their  position  is  not  so  clear  to  me.  Their  nature 
would  indicate  that  they  began  the  letter,  but  if  so  I 
cannot  see  why  they  should  blot  and  the  words  following 
them  should  not  appear." 

"But  if  they  were  part  of  another  letter — what  then?'' 

"Ah,"  remarks  Ashley,  thoughtfully. 

"I  am  assuming,  and  I  think  reasonably,  that  the  blot 
ter  was  first  used  upon  the  letter  or  letters  whose  con 
tents  we  are  attempting  to  guess,"  says  Barker.  "There 
are  many  faint  marks  around  the  legible  words,  but  nat 
urally  only  the  words  concluding  each  page  would  be 
distinguishable.  Those  above  would  be  either  dry  or 
in  process  of  drying.  But  what  else  do  you  deduce,  Ash 
ley?" 

"Well,  the  writing  does  not  display,  in  my  opinion, 


66  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

undue  haste  or  agitation.  I  am  not  an  expert  in  hand 
writing,  but  I  should  say  that  this  letter  was  written  at 
a  normal  speed  and  by  a  man  in  a  comparatively  calm 
condition  of  mind.  The  signature  is  bold  and  firm,  as 
are  all  the  legible  characters.  I  should  also  say  that  this 
letter  was  the  one  which  Roger  Hathaway  sent  to  Cyrus 
Felton  half  an  hour  or  so  before  he  was  found  dead 
in  his  office." 

"You  remember  Felton's  testimony  at  the  inquest?" 

"Perfectly.  He  stated  that  the  note  he  received  con 
tained  the  simple  request:  'Come  to  the  bank  imme 
diately.'  " 

"Then  you  think  he  lied  to  the  coroner?" 

"It  would  seem  so.    Unless " 

"Unless  the  note  he  received  at  his  house  on  the  even 
ing  of  Memorial  Day  did  contain  only  that  brief  sum 
mons,  which  is  contained  in  the  five  words  at  the  top 
of  the  blotter." 

"Precisely,"  agrees  Ashley.  "That  brings  us  to  the 
question,  when  was  the  other  letter  written?  It  must 
have  been  previous  to  the  note  referred  to  at  the  inquest, 
but  how  many  hours  or  days  before?  Let  me  have  your 
theory,  Barker.  My  mind  is  already  shaping  a  shad 
owy  one." 

The  detective  chews  his  cigar  reflectively.  "Suppose 
that  Roger  Hathaway  discovered,  some  time  ago — within 
a  few  weeks,  we  will  say — that  the  affairs  of  the  bank 
were  not  in  the  condition  that  they  should  be?"  he  haz 
ards.  "An  examination  of  the  books  showed  not  only 
that  the  president's  personal  account  was  overdrawn,  but 
that  certain  operations  of  the  latter  had  jeopardized  the 
soundness  of  the  institution.  The  knowledge  might  have 
been  expected  or  unexpected.  In  either  case  the  cashier 
realized  that  something  had  to  be  done,  and  at  once. 
So  on  the  day  before  Memorial  Day,  or  even  earlier, 
he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  president  and  couched  it  in  plain 
English.  He  instanced  the  overdrawal  of  the  president's 
personal  account  and  a  number  of  other  unpleasant  con 
ditions,  and  urged  upon  that  gentleman  the  necessity  for 
an  immediate  adjustment  of  the  critical  affairs,  closing 


68  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

with  the  admonition,  'Fail  not,  Cyrus  Felton,  at  the  peril 
of  your  good  name.' 

"Having  dispatched  his  letter  to  the  president,  the 
cashier  waited  anxiously  for  a  reply.  It  came  in  the 
form  of  a  call  by  Felton  at  the  residence  of  Hathaway 
the  evening  before  Memorial  Day.  The  interview  was  a 
stormy  one.  At  least  we  know  it  was  not  harmonious. 
The  cashier  again  set  forth  the  necessity  for  immediate 
action.  Ways  and  means  were  discussed,  but  no  way  out 
of  the  tangle  seemed  clear.  In  desperation  the  cashier 
suggested  some  unpleasant  but  safe  method  of  salvation. 
The  president  responded  angrily,  'I  can't  and  I  won't!' 
and  the  cashier  answered  decisively,  Then  there  is  only 
one  alternative.'  Without  waiting  to  discuss  this  alter 
native,  the  president  left  the  house  in  a  temper  and  the 
cashier  sat  up  in  his  library  for  hours  afterward,  medi 
tating  on  the  crisis. 

"Now,  what  was  this  'one  alternative'  indicated  by  the 
cashier?  Clearly  publicity  of  the  bank's  condition  and 
its  subsequent  wreck.  The  next  day  was  Memorial  Day. 
The  cashier  took  part  in  the  solemn  services  and  in  the 
evening  he  went  to  the  bank  to  perform  some  necessary 
work  upon  the  books,  the  teller  being  ill.  No  word  had 
come  from  the  president,  no  intimation  that  he  was 
prepared  to  follow  out  the  course  pointed  out  the  night 
before,  and  avoid  the  disgrace  which  the  wreck  of  the 
bank  would  entail.  Again  the  desperation  of  the  situation 
flashed  upon  the  cashier.  The  president  must  act,  and  at 
once.  So  the  cashier  indited  a  brief  but  peremptory  note 
to  the  president:  'Come  to  the  bank  immediately.'  This 
he  delivered  to  Jimmy  Howe,  whom  he  found  on  the 
bridge  tossing  pebbles  into  the  stream. 

"The  president  answered  the  summons.  Within  the 
cashier's  office  the  accusation,  apparently  so  plainly  indi 
cated  on  this  blotter,  was  repeated  verbally.  A  sharp  dis 
pute  followed.  Hot  words  led  to  blows.  The  drawer 
of  the  cashier's  desk  was  open  and  his  revolver  lay  in 
view.  Can  you  supply  the  rest?" 

"But  the  open  vault  and  the  missing  money  and  secu 
rities?"  contends  Ashley. 


FURTHER    CONSIDERATION    OP    CLEWS.  69 

"The  vault  may  have  been,  probably  was,  already  open. 
The  missing  funds — had  been  missing  for  some  little 
time,"  replies  Barker,  with  a  significant  smile.  Then  he 
resumes: 

"Felton  testified  that  on  the  night  of  the  tragedy  he 
reached  the  bank  about  8:20.  As  he  left  his  house  about 
8:05  he  must  have  got  to  the  bank  not  far  from  8:15.  It 
is  not  more  than  ten  minutes'  walk,  even  at  an  ordinary 
pace.  He  told  Sheriff  Wilson,  when  he  found  the  latter 
at  the  hotel,  that  he  discovered  Hathaway  'only  a  few 
moments  ago.'  Yet  the  sheriff  stated  to  me  that  he  was 
positive  it  was  8:35  when  he  was  informed  of  the  affair. 
He  looked  at  his  wratch  when  he  was  accompanying  Fel 
ton  to  the  bank.  Again,  Felton  told  the  coroner  that  'it 
did  not  seem  more  than  a  minute  that  I  spent  in  the 
bank,'  so  that  here  we  have  a  hiatus  of  fully  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.  Now,  where  was  Felton  during  that  fifteen 
minutes  if  not  in  the  company  of  Roger  Hathaway?  If 
Hathaway  was  dead  when  Felton  reached  the  bank,  why 
was  not  the  sheriff  informed  earlier?  You  see  there  is 
an  apparent  discrepancy  that  might  be  explained  on  the 
theory  that  Hathaway  was  alive  when  Felton  entered  the 
bank,  and  that  an  interview  of  ten  or  fifteen  minutes  was 
ended  by  the  death  of  the  cashier." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

FURTHER   CONSIDERATION   OF  CLEWS. 

Having  allowed  Ashley  to  digest  the  food  for  thought 
furnished  by  the  detective,  the  latter  resumes  his  story: 

"Upon  my  return  from  Ashfield  I  called  upon  Cyrus 
Felton,  found  him  at  his  residence  and  interviewed  him 
in  his  library  for  fully  an  hour.  When  I  introduced  my 
self  as  a  detective  he  started  visibly.  In  place  of  the 
extreme  agitation  which  characterized  his  testimony  at 
the  inquest,  he  betrayed  a  nervousness  rather  peculiar, 


70  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

to  say  the  least,  in  one  whose  knowledge  of  the  crime 
embraced  only  what  he  related  to  the  coroner. 

"I  questioned  him  minutely,  avoiding  any  direct  query 
that  would  be  likely  to  arouse  his  suspicions.  To  my 
question,  'When  did  you  last  see  Mr.  Hathaway?'  he 
replied  that  it  was  on  the  afternoon  of  Memorial  Day, 
when  the  Grand  Army  post  marched  to  the  cemetery. 

"  'And  before  that— when?' 

"He  hesitated  a  few  moments  and  answered  that  he 
had  last  talked  with  the  cashier  several  days,  probably  a 
week,  before  the  tragedy. 

"  'Your  relations  with  Mr.  Hathaway  were  always  of 
a  friendly  nature?' 

"  'Eminently  so.' 

"The  answer  was  straightforward  and  the  look  that 
accompanied  it  was  open  and  direct,  the  only  one,  by  the 
way,  during  the  entire  interview.  Of  course  I  was  not 
at  the  time  aware  of  the  unharmonious  interview  which, 
as  Miss  Hathaway  reported  to  you,  occurred  at  her  fa 
ther's  house  on  the  evening  preceding  Memorial  Day.  Lie 
No.  i,  conceding  that  he  told  the  truth  about  the  note 
which  he  received  from  the  cashier  on  the  evening  of 
the  tragedy. 

"  'Now,  this  revolver  of  Mr.  Hathaway's,  what  sort 
of  a  weapon  was  it,  Mr.  Felton?'  I  asked.  He  gave  me 
a  half-startled  look  and  I  fancied  that  his  gaze  strayed 
for  an  instant  to  the  safe  set  in  the  wall  of  his  library.  It 
flashed  upon  me  that  the  lost  gun  was  concealed  behind 
the  steel  door  of  that  same  safe. 

"  'The  revolver,'  he  said,  in  an  absent  sort  of  way;  'oh, 
it  was  an  ordinary  affair,  32  caliber,  I  believe  they  called 
it,  nickeled  and  with  a  pearl  handle.  I  had  often  seen  it 
lying  in  Mr.  Hathaway's  drawer,  but  so  far  as  I  know 
it  was  never  used.' 

"  'Would  you  recognize  that  revolver  if  you  should  see 
it  again,  Mr.  Felton?' 

"  'I  don't  know  as  I  could  positively  identify  it.  Re 
volvers  are  so  much  alike,  are  they  not?'  I  nodded,  and 
again  his  eyes  shifted  toward  the  door  of  his  safe. 

"Well,  as  I  say,  I  talked  with  him  for  about  an  hour, 


FURTHER    CONSIDERATION    OF    CLEWS.  71 

most  of  the  interview  dealing  with  the  forgery  case  of 
two  years  ago,  in  which  our  mysterious  friend,  Ernest 
Stanley,  figured  as  the  principal.  But  of  that  more  later. 

"It  was  about  5  o'clock  when  I  called  at  Felton's  house, 
and  the  supper  bells  of  the  neighborhood  were  ringing 
when  I  left.  Instead  of  going  to  the  hotel  I  struck  down 
a  side  street  to  the  river  road,  for  a  smoke  and  a  stroll, 
and  a  chance  to  run  the  Hathaway  case  over  in  my  mind. 

"Half  a  mile  below  the  village  there  is  quite  a  stretch 
of  road  without  any  houses  along  it.  The  cemetery  is 
on  one  side,  the  river  on  the  other.  I  was  sprawling  on 
the  stone  wall  that  skirts  the  city  of  the  dead  and  looking 
toward  the  village,  when  I  saw  a  figure  rapidly  approach 
ing.  'Cyrus  Felton  or  Pm  a  goat!'  I  exclaimed,  and 
rolled  out  of  sight  behind  the  wall.  My  eyesight  is  keen 
and  I  could  not  mistake  the  tall,  lank  form  of  the  bank 
president.  'What  the  deuce  is  he  doing  down  this  road 
at  an  hour  when  he  should  be  peacefully  eating  his  sup 
per?'  I  wondered. 

"When  Felton  passed  around  the  bend  in  the  road 
I  sprung  over  the  wall  and  followed  at  a  cautious  dis 
tance.  He  looked  around  once  or  twice,  and  I  had  to 
dodge  behind  a  tree  each  time.  Suddenly  he  stopped  and 
walked  out  upon  the  bank  of  the  river,  while  I  again 
took  up  a  position  behind  my  friendly  stone  wall. 

"Our  banker  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  river,  and, 
with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  stared  at  the  water, 
now  and  then  casting  a  look  up  and  down  the  road. 

"  'Heavens!  Is  he  going  to  commit  suicide?'  I  thought. 
Surely  my  mild  catechism  had  not  driven  him  to  such  an 
extremity.  My  fears  were  shortly  allayed.  He  suddenly 
thrust  his  hand  into  his  coat  pocket,  and,  withdrawing 
some  object,  hurled  it  into  the  stream.  '  It  sunk  with  a 
small  splash.  I  was  too  far  away  to  more  than  guess 
what  the  object  was.  Felton  remained  on  the  bank  for 
several  minutes,  gazing  at  the  surface  of  the  river,  then 
suddenly  wheeled  and  started  toward  the  village.  As 
he  passed  me  I  fancied  he  looked  a  bit  more  relieved 
in  mind. 

"After  he  was  out  of  sight  I  walked  over  to  the  river 


72  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

and  marked  as  near  as  possible  the  spot  where  he  had 
stood.  The  river  at  that  point  is  deep,  and  I  fear  that 
the  bottom  is  muddy,  as  the  stream  makes  a  sharp  bend 
and  spreads  into  a  broad  lagoon,  with  little  or  no  cur 
rent." 

"You  intend  to  go  a-fishing?"  queries  Ashley. 

"At  daylight,  if  we  can  get  a  boat  of  some  sort." 

"And  if  our  search  is  rewarded  by  the  finding  of  a 
revolver — the  revolver — what  then?" 

"Then  I  think  we  shall  have  a  case  against  Cyrus  Fel- 
ton  stronger  than  we  shall  make  out  against  any  one 
else.  I  can  see  by  your  face  that  you  are  only  half  con 
vinced  of  that  fact/'  continues  Barker.  "You  are  more 
inclined  to  suspect  the  younger  Felton  than  the  elder, 
eh?" 

"Well,"  argues  the  newspaper  man,  "in  the  case  of 
Ralph  Felton  there  is  a  motive,  an  evil  temper,  and 
what  is  usually  regarded  as  confession  of  guilt — flight." 

"Good.  Let  us  look  over  young  Felton's  case."  says 
the  detective.  "Ralph  Felton,  we  know,  is  possessed  of 
an  evil  temper  and  a  disposition  to  bullyrag  a  young  lady 
who  is  sensible  enough  not  to  love  him.  We  know  also 
that  he  gambles  with  traveling  men  who  put  up  here, 
and  drinks  more  or  less.  As  the  good  people  of  this 
town  regard  Ralph  as  a  model  young  man,  his  indul 
gence  in  cards  and  wine  on  the  quiet  shows  a  broad 
streak  of  deception  in  his  character. 

"His  inclinations  toward  gayety  were  not  cultivated 
in  his  native  town.  Previous  to  a  twelvemonth  ago  four 
or  five  years  of  his  life  were  spent  in  New  York,  Chicago 
and  other  cities.  His  occupation  during  a  share  of  that 
time  was  that  of  representative  and  selling  agent  for  the 
granite  company  in  which  his  father  is  the  principal 
stock  owner.  He  was  apparently  wild  and  reckless,  for 
a  year  ago  he  returned  to  Raymond  and  through  the 
efforts  of  his  father  was  given  the  position  of  bookkeeper 
in  the  bank,  a  position  which  does  not  usually  pay 
much.  It  would  appear  that  the  elder  Felton  had 
enacted  the  role  of  the  prodigal's  father. 

"While  Ralph  Felton  was  'down  country'  he  fell  in 


FURTHER    CONSIDERATION    OF    CLEWS.  73 

love  with  a  pretty  face,  and  upon  its  possessor  he  squan 
dered  all  his  means  and  more.  When  Ralph  returned  to 
Raymond  the  woman  wrote  to  him  demanding  money 
and  a  fulfillment  of  pledges.  The  former  he  had  not; 
of  the  latter  he  had  no  thought,  as  he  had  become  des 
perately  enamored  of  Helen  Hathaway.  Unable  to  ob 
tain  satisfaction  by  a  correspondence,  the  woman  visited 
Raymond  the  afternoon  of  Memorial  Day,  registered  as 
'Isabel  Winthrop,'  and  sent  word  to  Ralph  that  a  lady 
desired  to  see  him.  He  went  to  her.  The  interview  be 
tween  the  pair  was  not  harmonious.  Sounds  of  a  quarrel 
came  from  the  room,  and  once  or  twice  the  word  'money' 
was  used.  Half  an  hour  or  so  from  the  time  he  entered 
the  hotel  Ralph  left  with  a  flushed  countenance,  first 
pledging  the  clerk  to  say  nothing  of  his  feminine  caller. 

"He  has  essayed  promises  with  her,  but  something 
substantial  is  demanded  to  back  them  up.  He  must  have 
money,  but  where  is  it  to  be  secured?  No  use  to  apply 
to  his  father,  that  he  well  knows.  The  more  he  racks 
his  brain  the  more  desperate  becomes  the  situation.  Then 
a  wild  thought  comes  to  him.  The  bank!  There  must 
be  a  large  amount  of  money  in  the  safe.  The  county 
bonds  mature  the  next  day.  He  knows,  we  will  assume — 
perhaps  the  knowledge  is  accidental — the  combination 
of  the  safe. 

"Ralph  returns  to  the  hotel,  and,  with  a  calmness  born 
of  a  desperate  resolve,  informs  'Isabel  Winthrop'  that  he 
has  arranged  for  the  needed  funds,  and  reiterates  his 
promises  for  the  future.  As  dusk  comes  on  he  leaves  the 
hotel  unobserved  by  the  clerk,  goes  to  the  bank,  opens 
the  front  door  and  locks  it  behind  him,  and  proceeds 
to  the  cashier's  office  in  the  rear,  wherein  open  the  doors 
to  the  vault. 

"As  with  a  trembling  hand  he  twists  the  combination 
of  the  vault  he  hears  the  sound  of  a  key  in  the  outer 
door.  He  springs  to  his  feet  and  casts  a  startled  glance 
about  him.  There  is  no  egress  from  the  room  save  by 
the  way  he  came.  Ah!  The  closet!  He  secretes  him 
self  in  the  dark  closet  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  and 
at  that  instant  Roger  Hathaway  enters. 


74  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

'  'The  cashier,'  murmurs  the  prisoner  in  the  closet,  as 
through  the  partially  open  door  he  watches  Hathaway 
light  his  desk  lamp.  'He  has  dropped  in  to  get  some 
papers  and  will  soon  be  gone,'  thinks  Ralph.  But  to  the 
latter's  despair  the  cashier  opens  the  vault,  takes  out  the 
big  ledger,  and  settles  down  apparently  to  an  evening's 
work. 

"Here  is  a  nice  predicament,  but  there  is  nothing  to 
be  done  except  wait  until  the  cashier  finishes  his  even 
ing's  work  and  goes  home.  Half  an  hour  or  more  goes 
by.  The  closet  is  dusty  and  Ralph  is  seized  with  an  irre 
sistible  desire  to  sneeze.  The  explosion,  a  half-smothered 
one,  occurs,  and  the  cashier  looks  about  him  in  surprise 
and  wonder.  But  he  continues  his  work.  Suddenly  Pel- 
ton  sees  him  seize  a  pad  of  writing  paper,  scratch  off  a 
brief  note  and  leave  the  room  to  find  a  messenger.  Has 
the  cashier  suspected  the  presence  of  some  person  in 
the  bank  besides  himself  and  has  he  taken  this  means  to 
summon  assistance?  As  this  thought  flashes  upon  him 
young  Felton  becomes  desperate,  but  as  he  watches  the 
face  of  the  cashier,  who  returns  calmly  to  his  writing,  he 
convinces  himself  that  he  is  mistaken. 

"Again  that  cursed  inclination  to  sneeze,  which  in  vain 
he  attempts  to  smother.  This  time  there  is  no  mistake. 
The  cashier  rises  to  his  feet  and  glances  about  the  room 
in  alarm.  His  eyes  finally  rest  on  the  partly  opened 
door  of  the  dark  closet.  Hathaway  is  a  man  of  nerve. 
He  opens  the  right-hand  drawer  of  his  desk,  takes  out 
and  cocks  his  revolver  and  walks  deliberately  toward  the 
closet. 

"All  this  is  seen  by  Ralph,  and  his  plan  to  rob  the  bank- 
is  succeeded  by  a  desire  to  escape  from  the  building 
unrecognized.  To  accomplish  this  the  cashier  must  be 
overpowered.  So  when  the  latter  flings  open  the  closet 
door  the  man  within  reaches  out,  grasps  the  revolver 
arm  and  draws  the  cashier  into  the  darkness  of  the 
closet.  Then  ensues  a  fierce  struggle,  for  Roger  Hath 
away,  though  old,  is  still  a  powerful  man.  This  would 
account  for  the  old  ledgers  that  were  toppled  over  into 


THE   KEY   TO   THE  MYSTERY.  75 

the  office,  and  for  the  marks  on  the  body  of  the  murdered 
man. 

"During  the  struggle  the  revolver  is  discharged  and 
the  bullet  enters  the  cashier's  heart.  The  doctors  in  the 
case  tell  me  that  the  course  of  the  bullet  was  such  that 
the  leaden  missile  might  have  come  from  a  pistol  dis 
charged  during  such  a  struggle  as  I  have  described.  But 
to  continue: 

"Ralph  Felton  draws  the  limp  form  of  the  cashier  out 
into  the  office  and  lays  it  upon  the  floor.  A  moment's 
examination  shows  him  that  the  man  is  dead,  and  he 
realizes  his  frightful  position.  Then  the  thought  occurs 
to  him  that,  if  he  carries  out  his  original  plan  of  robbing 
the  bank,  the  crime  will  be  ascribed  to  burglars.  So  he 
fills  his  pockets  with  what  money  and  securities  are  in 
the  safe,  closes  the  door  to  the  cashier's  office  behind  him 
and  leaves  the  bank,  with  the  front  door  unlocked  or 
ajar." 

"Unless "  interrupts  Ashley. 

"Unless  what?" 

"Unless,"  says  the  newspaper  man,  leaning  back  in  his 
chair  and  blowing  a  cloud  of  smoke  ceilingward — "unless 
Ralph  Felton,  when  he  rose  from  his  examination  of  the 
body,  was  suddenly  confronted  by  his  father,  who  had 
come  to  the  bank  in  response  to  the  summons  sent  by 
the  cashier!" 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  KEY  TO  THE  MYSTERY. 

"Following  along  the  lines  of  your  theory,"  continues 
Ashley,  "if  Ralph  Felton  rose  from  the  corpse  of  Roger 
Hathaway  and  confronted  his  father  upon  the  threshold 
of  the  cashier's  office,  that  dramatic  meeting  would  ex 
plain  many  things.  It  would  explain  the  startled  glance 
that  Cyrus  Felton  shot  at  his  son — I  was  studying  the 
faces  of  both — when  the  latter  refused  to  state  at  the 
inquest  where  he  had  spent  the  time  between  7:45  and 


76  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

8:30  on  the  evening  of  Memorial  Day.  It  would  account 
for  the  carrying  off  of  the  cashier's  revolver  and  its 
subsequent  burial  among  the  waters  of  Wild  River;  for 
young  Felton's  flight,  and  for  the  extreme  agitation  of 
the  elder  Felton  ever  since  the  night  of  the  killing." 

"And,"  adds  Barker,  "it  would  satisfactorily  clear  up 
the  interim  of  fifteen  minutes  between  the  time  Cyrus 
Felton  should  have  reached  the  bank  and  the  moment 
when  the  sheriff  was  notified.  In  fact,  if  the  Felton  fam 
ily  is  responsible  for  the  death  of  Roger  Hathaway  there 
must  be  some  understanding  between  father  and  son. 
But  we  will  now  proceed  to  the  consideration  of  an 
important  character  in  our  tragedy — Ernest  Stanley. 

"Two  years  ago,  while  the  directors  of  the  Raymond 
National  Bank  were  holding  their  annual  meeting,  the 
teller  stepped  into  the  room  and  announced  that  a 
stranger  had  presented  at  the  bank  for  payment  a  check 
for  $1,000,  signed  by  Cyrus  Felton. 

"  'Impossible !'  exclaimed  that  individual,  who  was  pre 
siding  over  the  directors'  meeting.  'Let  me  see  the 
check.'  The  teller  produced  it,  and  Felton  at  once  de 
clared  it  a  forgery,  and  a  bungling  one  at  that.  An  offi 
cer  was  quickly  summoned  and  Ernest  Stanley,  who  had 
presented  the  check,  was  arrested. 

"His  trial  in  the  Mansfield  County  Court  was  short. 
The  forgery  was  proved  and  the  young  man  was  sen 
tenced  to  three  years  in  the  state  prison  at  Windsor.  In 
his  own  defense — he  had  no  money  with  which  to  employ 
a  lawyer — Stanley  stated  that  the  check  had  been  given 
to  him  two  days  before  he  presented  it,  by  a  casual  ac 
quaintance  who  claimed  the  name  signed  to  the  bit  of 
paper.  It  was  in  payment  of  a  gambling  debt  and  the 
transaction  occurred  in  Phil  Clark's  well-known  lair  of 
the  tiger  on  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York." 

"Which,  by  the  way,  is  no  more,"  puts  in  Ashley.  "The 
place  was  closed  out  six  months  ago  and  Phil  is  now 
in  'Frisco." 

"It  was  in  existence  during  Stanley's  trial,"  resumes 
Barker,  "and  the  trial  was  adjourned  a  couple  of  days 
while  his  improbable  story  was  looked  up.  As  was 


THE   KEY   TO   THE   MYSTERY.  77 

expected,  neither  Phil  nor  any  of  the  habitues  of  his 
place  knew  of  such  a  person  as  Ernest  Stanley,  much 
less  such  a  transaction  as  he  alleged  to  have  occurred 
there. 

"Stanley  received  his  sentence  calmly.  Beyond  stating 
that  his  age  was  26  and  his  occupation  that  of  a  book 
maker  he  refused  to  furnish  any  details  of  his  birth,  early 
life  or  present  residence.  He  served  two  years  of  his 
sentence  and  was  pardoned  by  the  governor  this  last 
Memorial  Day.  Strangely  enough,  the  pardon  was  se 
cured  by  the  man  whose  name  he  was  alleged  to  have 
forged — Cyrus  Felton.  Now,  what  feelings  do  you  sup 
pose  actuated  Felton  in  securing  a  remission  of  a  year 
in  the  prisoner's  sentence?  Compassion?" 

"What  should  you  say  were  I  to  suggest  the  word 
'remorse'?"  replies  Ashley. 

"I  should  say,"  declares  the  detective,  with  a  smile  of 
approval,  "that  you  had  hit  upon  the  very  word.  It  is 
plain  that  you  foresee  what  I  am  leading  up  to." 

"To  the  theory  that  Stanley  was  innocent  of  the  forg 
ery  and  that  the  check  was  given  to  him  by  Ralph  Fel 
ton?" 

"Exactly.  It  will  be  difficult  to  prove,  but  if  it  can  be 
proved  it  will  have  an  important  bearing  on  the  Hatha 
way  mystery.  It  will  show  Ralph  Felton's  capacity  for 
wrongdoing  and  will  enable  us  to  surmise  to  what  extent 
Cyrus  Felton  would  shield  his  son  from  conviction  of  a 
crime.  At  the  time  the  check  was  presented  Ralph  Fel 
ton  was  supposed  to  be  in  New  York,  and  as  he  had  been 
for  some  time  more  or  less  of  a  trial  to  the  old  man  the 
latter  doubtless  suspected  in  an  instant  what  we  are 
assuming  to  have  been  the  truth.  He  had  to  decide  be 
tween  his  son  and  a  stranger,  and,  as  usual,  the  stranger 
suffered." 

"What  led  Stanley  to  attempt  to  cash  the  check  in 
Raymond?"  debates  Ashley. 

"Well,  if  he  was  a  stranger  in  New  York  he  would 
find  it  impossible  to  cash  it  at  any  of  the  banks  in  that 
city.  Why  not  run  up  to  Raymond  and  cash  it  at  the 
bank  on  which  it  was  drawn?  I  forgot  to  say  that  at 


78  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

the  trial  Stanley  allege'd  that  his  acquaintance  of  the  gam 
bling  rooms  claimed  to  be  a  Vermonter  and  appeared  to 
have  plenty  of  money." 

"And  he  did  not  hazard  the  suggestion  that  this  ac 
quaintance  was  the  son  of  the  man  whose  name  was 
forged?" 

"He  did  not  know  that  there  was  a  son.  To  prove 
this,  if  the  visitor  at  Cyrus  Felton's  house  on  the  evening 
of  Memorial  Day  was  the  released  prisoner  of  Windsor, 
note  his  surprised  reply  to  the  housemaid,  'I  did  not 
know  there  were  two  Feltons.'" 

"True,"  admits  Ashley.    "Keep  along,  old  man." 

"If  Stanley  was  that  visitor,"  pursues  the  detective,  "his 
object  in  revisiting  Raymond  was  to  obtain  revenge  for 
the  wrong  that  had  been  done  him. 

"When  he  arrived  at  Raymond,  at  7:45,  he  went  di 
rectly  to  Felton's  house.  Failing  to  find  the  bank  presi 
dent  at  home,  he  obtained  directions  as  to  where  Felton's 
office  was  and  proceeded  to  the  bank  block.  The  office, 
which  is  on  the  second  story,  at  the  south  end  of  the 
block,  was  dark  and  Stanley  returned  to  the  street.  As 
he  stood  in  front  of  the  bank  and  thought  of  the  day, 
two  long  years  before,  when  he  stepped  from  its  portals 
with  a  constable  gripping  his  arm,  he  noticed  a  light  in 
the  rear.  Perhaps  Felton  was  within.  So  he  pushed 
open  the  door  and " 

"Hold  on  a  bit.  How  does  the  bank  door  come  to 
be  open?  You  are  assuming  a  great  deal  this  time, 
Barker,"  laughs  Ashley. 

"I  am  assuming  that  he  got  into  the  bank  some  way 
or  other,"  retorts  the  detective.  "If  not — and  here  I 
will  quote- your  own  words  when  you  imparted  to  me 
your  valuable  discovery — 'What  was  Stanley  doing  at  6 
o'clock  the  next  morning  asleep  in  the  bushes  in  a  lonely 
gorge  near  South  Ashfield  village?" 

Ashley  laughs  merrily.  "I  was  expecting  that,"  he 
says.  "But  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  will  believe  that  an  Edmond 
Dantes  sort  of  a  chap  like  Ernest  Stanley  is  capable 
of " 

"Permit  me  to  suggest  that  Ernest  Stanley  may  be 


THE   KEY   TO   THE   MYSTERY.  79 

a  cheap  criminal  instead  of  an  Edmond  Dantes,"  inter 
rupts  Barker,  with  a  withering  sarcasm  that  only  in 
creases  Ashley's  good  humor.  "We  have  given  him  a 
good  character  simply  to  suit  our  present  theory.  He 
may  have  really  forged  old  Felton's  name,  and  his  visit 
to  Raymond  may  have  been  actuated  by  a  base  desire 
for  revenge  upon  a  stern  justice  meted  out  to  him.  Alone 
in  the  bank  with  Roger  Hathaway  and  the  open  vault, 
murder  and  robbery  may  have  come  natural  to  him.  We 
know  nothing  that  should  lead  us  to  decide  that  he  was 
a  much-abused  young  man." 

"Yet  you  believe  he  is,  I'll  wager/'  asserts  Ashley. 

"I  confess  that  I  do.  A  man  would  be  half  a  dozen 
kinds  of  a  fool  to  forge  the  name  of  the  president  of  a 
bank  and  present  the  check  for  payment  at  the  latter's 
own  bank.  Still  what  evidence  we  have  against  Stanley 
is  strong.  We  can  account  for  the  flight  of  Derrick 
Ames  on  the  simple  elopement  theory.  We  can  explain 
the  levanting  of  Ralph  Felton  on  the  theory  that  he 
refused  to  establish  an  alibi  because  it  would  necessitate 
the  confession  of  an  acquaintance  with  'Isabel  Winthrop,' 
when  he  was  an  ardent  suitor  for  the  hand  of  Helen  Hath 
away,  and  on  the  further  supposition  that  he  has  gone 
to  hunt  for  the  woman  he  insanely  loved.  We  can  ex 
plain  the  nervous  condition  of  Cyrus  Felton  on  the  as 
sumption  that  he  fears  his  son  was  implicated  in  the 
bank  robbery  and  trembles  for  his  safety.  But  we  can 
not  explain  why  Ernest  Stanley  fled  from  Raymond  the 
night  of  Memorial  Day  and  hurried  over  mountain  and 
stream  and  through  forest,  chased  like  a  wild  beast, 
until  he  found  a  haven  of  refuge.  The  open  bank  door 
is  the  break  in  the  chain  of  evidence  against  him, 
and  that  may  be  mended  by  assuming  that  the  cashier 
forgot  to  lock  the  door  behind  him  when  he  entered 
the  bank. 

"We  must  find  Stanley,"  Ashley  promptly  declares. 

"And  there  are  others  to  be  found,"  the  detective 
rejoins  dryly.  "But  especially  must  we  run  down  Stan 
ley.  I  am  convinced  that  he  is  the  key  to  the  mystery, 
and  when  we  have  located  his  position  in  this  puzzling 


80  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

case  I  believe  that  the  rest  of  the  race  will  be  plain 
sailing." 

"I  fear  it  will  be  a  long,  stern  chase." 

'Such  chases  usually  are,"  remarks  Barker,  com 
posedly.  "I  have  already  set  the  machinery  in  motion, 
and  the  police  of  the  entire  country  are  on  the  lookout- 
for  a  chap  answering  Stanley's  description.  What  makes 
our  task  the  harder  is  the  probable  fact  that  Stanley  is 
not  a  member  of  the  criminal  class,  and  so  a  compara 
tively  easy  channel  of  pursuit  is  closed.  He  presuma 
bly  made  for  New  York,  and  somewhere  in  that  busy 
human  hive  we  may  run  across  him." 

"Then  our  labors  at  this  end  of  the  road  are  about 
completed?" 

"Nearly  so.  To-morrow  morning,  before  the  village 
is  astir,  we  will  go  a-fishing.  If  we  find  what  we  expect 
the  case  may  be  precipitated  a  bit.  Otherwise  we  will 
shift  the  scene  of  our  operations  to  New  York,  after  I 
have  pumped  the  servants  in  the  Felton  family  and 
inquired  as  far  as  is  possible  into  the  affairs  of  the  bank. 
Is  your  vacation  about  wound  up?" 

"It  will  be  in  a  day  or  so.  I  have  nothing  to  keep 
me  here  longer  except  a  pleasant  duty  that  I  owe  to 
myself." 

"And  that  is " 

"To  make  an  unprofessional  call  upon  Miss  Louise 
Hathaway." 

"Ho!  Sits  the  wind  in  that  quarter?"  laughs  the  de 
tective. 

"Don't  be  absurd,  my  friend,"  smiles  Ashley.  "Miss 
Hathaway  interests  me  only  as  would  a  statue  of  the 
Venus  de  Milo." 

"Indeed?    Still,  men  have  lost  their  hearts  to  a  statue." 

"In  books  and  plays.  If  we  are  to  arise  at  daybreak 
I  would  suggest  the  advisability  of  retiring." 


A  CHANGE  OF  BASE.  81 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

A  CHANGE  OF  BASE. 

"I  believe  this  is  the  exact  spot;  yes,  I  am  sure  it  is. 
Drop  your  anchor,  Ashley,  so  that  the  bow  will  point 
up-stream/'  says  Barker,  as  he  grasps  a  long  pole  with 
a  hook  at  one  end,  and  prepares  to  explore  the  bed 
of  Wild  River. 

Ashley  lets  go  the  rock  that  does  duty  as  an  anchor  and 
remarks  ruefully,  when  all  but  a  yard  of  the  rope  is  run 
out:  "This  is  deep-sea  fishing.  There  is  over  twelve 
feet  of  water  here." 

"Thunder!  And  mud  enough  to  bury  a  man-of-war/' 
grunts  the  detective. 

After  fifteen  minutes  of  earnest  but  ineffectual  grop 
ing  in  the  slimy  bed  of  the  stream  Barker  throws  the 
pole  from  him  and  remarks:  "No  use." 

"Can't  the  river  be  dredged?'' 

"Yes;  with  a  force  of  men  and  a  steam  dredger,  and 
the  whole  township  looking  on  and  asking  questions. 
We  can  do  nothing  this  morning.  Up  anchor  and  away! 
I  could  use  a  little  breakfast." 

"By  the  way,"  observes  Ashley,  as  the  two  men  walk 
back  to  the  hotel,  "in  all  your  talk  last  night  you  said 
nothing  of  that  locket,  with  the  miniatures  of  the  Hath 
away  sisters,  which  was  stolen  from  the  watch-chain  of 
the  murdered  cashier  the  night  of  the  killing." 

"Do  you  know  it  was  stolen  on  that  night?"  asks  the 
detective. 

"We  must  assume  that  it  was  until  we  know  other 
wise,  I  suppose,"  returns  Ashley.  "If  the  missing  locket 
is  found  in  the  possession  of  any  one  of  our  suspects 
it  would  be  a  strong  link,  would  it  not?'' 

"Very  likely,  but  we  must  find  our  man  first.  Shall 
you  be  ready  to  leave  for  New  York  to-night?" 

"Sure  thing." 

"Good.  We  must  strike  the  trail  there  and  follow  it, 
if  need  be,  to  the  end  of  the  world." 


82  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

Ashley  has  been  in  Raymond  only  two  weeks,  but  al 
ready  he  begins  to  sigh  for  the  pleasures  and  palaces 
of  gay,  crowded  and  babel-voiced  New  York. 

"Hang  it!"  he  growls  to  Barker,  as  he  packs  his  valise, 
"this  Vermont  country  is  all  right,  but  the  natives  are 
atrocious.  They  know  no  literature  except  those  provin 
cial  Boston  dailies  and  the  current  paper-covered  rot; 
no  music  except  Sousa's  marches,  no  art  except  the  col 
ored  supplements  to  the  Sunday  newspapers  and  no  con 
versation  higher  than  horse,  hay  and  village  gossip." 

"Your  criticism  is  too  sweeping,"  replies  the  detective. 
There  is  more  culture  in  Raymond,  in  proportion  to  its 
population,  than  there  is  in  New  York,  I'll  wager.  And 
where  in  that  politics-ridden  city  will  you  find  another 
woman  rivaling  your  fervid  description  of  Miss  Louise 
Hathaway?" 

"Ah,  she  is  a  rose  in  a  wilderness.  And  that  reminds 
me  that  I  have  promised  myself  the  pleasure  of  a  farewell 
call  upon  her,"  says  Ashley. 

"Farewell?"  repeats  the  detective,  skeptically.  "You 
will  not  see  the  last  of  Miss  Hathaway  to-day  unless  I 
am  much  mistaken.  I  have  known  of  more  than  one 
lover  of  statuary  who  failed  to  be  content  with  the  marble 
and  warmed  it  into  living,  breathing  womanhood." 

"Nonsense!''  laughs  Ashley.  "I  shall  live  and  die  a 
bachelor." 

But  he  spends  fully  ten  minutes  in  tying  his  cravat, 
brushes  his  hair  with  unusual  care,  gives  his  mustache 
an  extra  twist,  and  saunters  up  to  the  Hathaway 
homestead  in  an  expectant  frame  of  mind.  Foolish  Jack 
Ashley!  In  after  years  he  will  smile  at  the  recollection 
of  the  thoughts  that  flit  through  his  busy  mind  to-day. 

Just  as  he  turns  into  the  path  leading  to  the  Hatha 
way  residence  Miss  Hathaway  is  stepping  out  upon  the 
veranda.  She  sees  him  and  smiles  in  her  grave  way. 

"Good  afternoon,"  she  says  to  her  visitor.  He  answers, 
uncovering  his  head. 

"I  called  to  say  au  revoir.  I  leave  for  New  York  to 
night." 

She  leads  the  way  to  the  reception  room.    After  they 


A  CHANGE  OF  BASE.  83 

have  taken  their  seats  near  the  open  window  she  answers: 

"You  will  return?  Your  work  here  on — on  the  case 
is  not  yet  finished?" 

"No;  we  shall  have  occasion  to  visit  Raymond  more 
than  once  before  the  mystery  which  shrouds  the  bank 
case  is  dispelled.  It  is  going  to  be  a  long  chase,  I  fear, 
Miss  Hathaway.  But  I  hope  to  come  to  you  some  day 
and  tell  you  of  its  successful  end." 

"I  hope  so,"  she  replies  dreamily,  her  thoughts  far 
away. 

"You  have  heard  nothing  more  from  your  sister?" 

"Nothing."    Her  look  is  frank. 

"I  can  tell  you  nothing  of  our  plans,"  says  Ashley, 
"further  than  that  our  principal  endeavor  will  be  to  dis 
cover  Ernest  Stanley." 

"Ernest  Stanley?''  repeats  Miss  Hathaway.  "Oh,  the 
young  man  who  was  pardoned  from  State  prison  on 
Memorial  Day.  Do  you  think  he  committed  the  crime?'' 

"Frankly,  no.  But  we  believe  that  he  knows  some 
thing  of  its  perpetration.  In  other  words,  we  regard  him 
as  the  key  to  the  mystery." 

"And  Derrick  Ames?"  questions  Miss  Hathaway,  with 
the  anxious  expression  of  yesterday  in  her  gaze. 

"Derrick  Ames  must  be  found,  also.  If  you  could  give 
me  any  information " 

"I  can  tell  you  nothing,"  she  replies  hurriedly. 

"Ralph  Felton  is  another  absentee  whose  presence  is 
earnestly  desired,"  he  resumes. 

"You  say  you  do  not  believe  that  Stanley  is  the  guilty 
man.  Does  it,  then,  lie  between  Ralph  Felton  and " 

"And  Derrick  Ames?"  finishes  Ashley.  "Not  neces 
sarily.  There  is  another,  but  for  excellent  reasons  I 
should  prefer  not  to  mention  the  name.  Have  you  any 
plans  for  the  future?" 

"No  definite  plans.  Mr.  Cyrus  Felton  has  been  ap 
pointed  executor  of  the  estate  and  after  that  has  been 
settled  I  shall  probably  make  my  home  at  his  house." 

"At  Cyrus  Felton's?"  murmurs  Ashley,  in  such  a  pecu 
liar  voice  that  Miss  Hathaway  looks  at  him  in  surprise. 


84  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Yes;  that  is  the  only  place  I  can  go  to  at  present.  He 
has  long  been  a  friend  of  the  family.'' 

''Have  you  no  relatives — in  Boston,  New  York,  or 
elsewhere?" 

"No  near  relatives.  It  will  not  be  very  long  ere  I 
shall  have  to  make  a  home  for  myself.  I  am  told  that  the 
estate  will  settle  for  very  little,"  confesses  Miss  Hatha 
way,  with  a  red  spot  in  each  pale  cheek.  Ashley  under 
stands  and  regards  her  sympathetically. 

There  is  a  short,  somewhat  embarrassing  silence.  Then 
Ashley  rises  regretfully.  He  says: 

"I  am  afraid  it  must  be  good-bye — or,  perhaps,  au 
revoir.  I  shall  hope  to  see  you  again  before  the  summer 
is  gone." 

"I  trust  so,"  Miss  Hathaway  responds,  this  time  quite 
cordially,  as  she  gives  him  her  hand  at  parting,  and  Ash 
ley  holds  it  an  instant  longer  than  ordinary  courtesy  calls 
for.  And  as  he  walks  slowly  away  from  the  house  he 
carries  with  him  the  vision  of  a  tall  girl,  with  a  pure 
white  face  and  sad  blue  eyes,  into  which  the  sunlight 
will  some  day  come  again. 

At  night  he  and  Barker  take  the  Montreal  express 
for  New  York. 


Summer  drifts  into  autumn  and  autumn  into  winter. 
Life  goes  on  much  the  same  in  Raymond.  The  Hatha 
way  mystery  gradually  fades  from  public  interest,  and  it 
is  set  down  as  a  crime  that  will  never  be  explained. 

The  Raymond  National  Bank  has  closed  its  doors. 
The  robbery  of  its  vault  was  a  blow  from  which  it  found 
it  impossible  to  recover. 

No  tidings  are  received  of  Derrick  Ames  and  Helen 
Hathaway  or  of  Ralph  Felton.  None,  unless  they  are 
in  the  keeping  of  the  silent,  stern-faced  Cyrus  Felton  or 
the  beautiful  girl  with  the  sad  blue  eyes  who  abides  under 
his  roof. 

Every  Sunday,  in  rain  ©r  in  sunshine,  mid  heat  or  cold, 
Louise  Hathaway  may  be  seen  ascending  the  hill  in  the 
little  cemetery  by  which  Wild  River  sings  its  way,  her 


r- 


SHADOWS    OF   COMING  EVENTS.  85 

mission  of  love  to  deposit  a  basket  of  flowers  upon  a 
grave  at  the  head  of  which  stands  a  plain  white  shaft 
bearing,  besides  the  name  and  dates,  the  simple  inscrip 
tion,  "Faithful  Unto  Death." 


CHAPTER  XV. 
SHADOWS   OF  COMING  EVENTS. 

It  is  early  in  the  evening.  Jack  Ashley  is  seated  at 
his  desk  in  the  Hemisphere  office  enjoying  his  pipe 
preliminary  to  setting  forth  on  an  assignment. 

The  month  is  March.  Nearly  a  year  has  elapsed  since 
Ashley's  first  visit  to  the  Vermont  town  which,  for  a 
brief  space,  came  into  the  world's  eye  as  the  scene  of 
the  mysterious  death  of  Cashier  Roger  Hathaway  in 
the  Raymond  National  Bank.  During  this  time  no  fur 
ther  light  has  been  shed  on  the  mystery,  which  has  grad 
ually  dropped  from  the  thoughts  of  all  save  a  few  per 
sons,  two  of  whom  are  Ashley  and  John  Barker,  the 
detective. 

Jack  hears  from  Barker  occasionally.  The  latter  is 
busy  on  other  work,  but  he  still  keeps  a  live  interest  in 
what  he  regards  as  the  case  of  his  life,  and  both  he  and 
his  newspaper  colaborer  hope  some  day  to  astonish  Ver 
mont,  and  incidentally  the  country,  by  solving  the  Hath 
away  mystery,  one  of  the  most  remarkable  in  the  crim 
inal  annals  of  New  England. 

But  as  the  months  slipped  by  Ashley's  stock  of  confi 
dence  decreased  slightly  and  to-night  finds  him  wonder 
ing  whether  he  will  ever  have  the  privilege  of  handing 
the  news  editor  a  bundle  of  "copy,"  with  the  remark 
"There  is  an  exclusive  that  is  worth  while." 

"I  have  helped  run  down  a  number  of  crimes  and 
fasten  them  upon  the  guilty  persons,"  he  soliloquizes, 
"and  have  flattered  myself  that  I  was  something  of  a  de 
tective.  But  in  each  of  those  cases  the  trembling  villain 
was  on  or  about  the  scene  of  his  crime  and  when  you 


86  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

had  your  case  made  out  all  there  was  to  do  was  to  clap 
a  heavy  hand  upon  his  shoulder.  But  in  this  Hathaway 
drama  about  all  of  the  leading  characters  have  disap 
peared,  aird  the  man  whom  we  regard  as  the  key  to  the 
mystery,  Ernest  Stanley,  is  the  very  man  we  are  least 
likely  to  find. 

"But  is  Stanley  the  key?"  continues  Jack,  stretching 
himself  in  his  chair.  "I  don't  think  Barker  and  I  have 
attached  sufficient  importance  to  that  blotter  found  on 
Hathaway's  desk.  These  fragments  of  sentences  keep 
haunting  me,  even  amid  my  daily  duties.  Something  tells 
me  that  if  we  had  the  imprint  of  an  entire  page  of  that 
letter  to  Felton  we  could  solve  the  mystery  without  find 
ing  our  men.  'These  things  I  charge  you,  Cyrus  Felton, 
fail  not  at  the  peril  of  your  good  name.'  'These 
things ' " 

Ashley  is  slowly  scratching  a  match  to  relight  his  pipe, 
when  he  suddenly  stops  and  his  thought-wrinkled  fore 
head  smooths. 

"Hello!  Here's  an  idea,  perhaps  a  valuable  one.  It 
is  possible  that  Barker  and  I  have  been  all  wrong  in 
regarding  that  letter  as  an  accusation.  The  English 
language  is  elastic.  'I  charge  you,  Cyrus  Felton,' — 'I 
charge  you,  I  charge  you,  I  charge  you.'  Now,  instead 
of  'I  accuse  you,'  read  'I  adjure  you.'  But  'I  adjure  you,' 
what?  To  'fail  not.'  To  'fail  not'  in  what?  Ay,  there's 
the  rub.  I  am  as  much  in  the  dark  as  before.  Still  the 
idea  is  worth  considering,  and  I'll  spring  it  on  Barker.'' 

Ashley  finishes  his  smoke  in  silence  and  when  the  last 
flake  of  tobacco  has  yielded  its  solace  he  draws  on  his 
coat  and  boards  an  uptown  car. 

In  that  brilliantly  lighted  section  of  Broadway  where 
stands  the  Hoffman  House,  Jack  stops  a  moment  to  chat 
with  an  acquaintance. 

"Say,"  remarks  the  latter,  "there's  a  chap  yonder  star 
ing  hard  at  you.  Know  him?" 

At  his  friend's  suggestion  Ashley  turns  suddenly  and 
catches  the  searching  gaze  of  a  tall,  handsome  man  with 
a  dark-brown  beard  trimmed  to  a  point.  He  is  richly 
but  simply  attired,  and  his  appearance  is  unmistakably 


SHADOWS  OF  COMING  EVENTS.  87 

that  ot  a  gentleman.    As  Ashley  returns  his  stare  with  in 
terest  the  stranger  turns  and  enters  the  hotel. 

The  incident  is  trivial,  but  it  awakens  curious  emo 
tions  in  Ashley,  and  absently  overlooking  his  acquaint 
ance's  suggestion  of  a  visit  to  the  cafe,  he  says  an  au 
revoir  and  continues  up  Broadway. 

"I  have  seen  those  eyes  somewhere,"  he  muses,  "but 
hang  me  if  I  can  recall  where." 

As,  late  in  the  evening,  his  assignment  covered,  Ash 
ley  is  sauntering  down  Broadway,  he  is  haunted  by  the 
vision  of  a  bearded  face  surrounding  a  pair  of  piercing 
eyes.  He  even  drops  in  at  the  Hoffman  House  and 
looks  through  the  bar  room,  cafe  and  reading  rooms, 
but  the  handsome  stranger  is  not  in  view. 

Ashley  has  been  in  Raymond  once  since  he  left  it, 
the  spring  before,  and  he  was  kindly  received  by  Miss 
Hathaway.  But  that  was  all.  Not  all  his  engaging  man 
ners  and  clever  conversation  could  penetrate  the  reserve 
with  which  she  surrounded  herself,  and  he  almost  decided 
that  she  was  indeed  the  marble  which  he  professed  to 
Barker  to  have  solely  interested  him.  Still,  that  pure 
white  face,  with  its  matchless  blue  eyes  and  the  sad 
smile  that  occasionally  lighted  it,  lingers  vividly  in  his 
memory  and  will  continue  to  linger  until 

He  is  at  the  Hemisphere  office  now.  A  very  short  time 
suffices  to  write  and  hand  in  his  "copy''  and  then  he 
lounges  into  the  cable  editor's  room,  with  the  inquiry: 
"What  news  from  over  the  sea,  Chance?" 

"Nothing  special  except  the  insurrection  in  Cuba," 
Chance  tells  him.  "Affairs  are  getting  hot  down  there. 
You  can  judge  of  the  magnitude  of  to-day's  battle  at 
Cienfuegos  when  you  read  that  thirty  Spaniards  were 
killed  and  fifty  captured.'' 

"I  should  say  so,"  laughs  Ashley.  "The  average  mor 
tality  per  battle  is  three  men  killed  and  four  wounded, 
is  it  not?" 

The  cable  editor  throws  a  handful  of  "copy"  from  him 
with  a  sniff  of  disgust.  "One  can  never  tell  how  far  to 
trust  this  rot  we  are  getting  from  Madrid  and  Key  West/' 
he  says.  "I  wish  the  Hemisphere  had  a  live  man  such  as 


88  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

you  down  in  Cuba  to  give  us  some  straight  information 
on  the  conflict." 

"Thank  you.  I  have  no  desire  to  run  up  against  Yel 
low  Jack." 

"Hang  Yellow  Jack!  He  is  only  dangerous  to  those 
half-fed  raw  recruits  that  the  government  is  sending  over 
from  Spain.  I  have  talked  with  Mr.  Hone  about  the  ad 
vantage  of  sending  a  representative  to  Havana  or  Santi 
ago,  and  he  is  seriously  considering  it.  "Hold  on!  Here's 
something  coming  now,"  and  Chance  turns  to  his  table. 

Ashley  waits  until  the  dispatch  has  been  received,  and 
then  reads  with  interest  the  following  special  from  Ma 
drid: 

"Ten  thousand  additional  troops  will  be  dispatched  to  Cuba 
•within  a  week,  in  response  to  the  demand  of  Gen.  Martinez 
de  Truenos,  the  new  captain-general  of  the  island.  Geu. 
Truenos  has  had  experience  in  fighting  Cuban  insurgents,  and 
a  speedy  termination  of  the  uprising  is  looked  for." 

"Same  old  bluff,"  comments  Ashley,  and  then,  awak 
ened  to  an  interest  in  Cuban  affairs  by  the  words  of  the 
cable  editor,  he  visits  the  night-editor's  den  in  search  of 
further  information. 

The  longest  story  is  from  Key  West,  and  a  portion  of 
it  runs  in  this  wise: 

"The  insurgents  are  winning  victories  every  day.  The 
Cuban  patriots  do  not  need  more  men.  All  they  want  is  arms 
and  ammunition. 

"It  is  whispered  that  the  greatest  difficulty  with  which  the 
present  captain-general  has  to  contend  is  the  conspiring  among 
his  own  alleged  supporters  and  advisers.  One  or  two  Spanish 
generals  and  a  number  of  influential  residents  and  land-owners 
at  Havana,  Santiago  and  other  important  points  are  sus 
pected  of  active  sympathy  with  the  insurgents,  but  no  proof  of 
such  complicity  can  be  obtained.  It  is  even  said  that  the 
chosen  president  of  the  provisional  republic  is  at  present  in 
Cuba,  and  that  under  the  very  nose  of  the  hated  oppressor  he 
directs  the  movements  of  the  patriot  armies.  It  is  thought 
that  this  condition  of  affairs  is  responsible  for  the  change  in 
captain-generals,  as  Truenos  is  reputed  to  be  a  clever  diplo 
mat  as  well  as  a  tried  soldier.  The  next  few  months  will 
probably  decide  the  fate  of  the  republic.  The  Cubans  must 
win  this  year  or  never." 

What  do  you  think?"  Ashley  asks  the  night  editor. 
"Has  the  island  any  chance  of  liberty?" 


SHADOWS   OP  COMING  EVENTS.  89 

"The  prospects  were  never  rosier,"  is  Chambers'  reply. 
"It  is  evident  that  the  Castilian  has  an  enormous  job  on 
his  hands  in  the  present  insurrection.  We  received  a  dis 
patch  a  short  while  ago  which  has  a  local  reference.  I 
sent  it  up  to  Hone,  and  perhaps  Ricker  has  it  by  this  time. 
It  states  that  the  insurgents  count  upon  valuable  assist 
ance  from  New  York  and  that  an  expedition  is  being 
fitted  out  here.  This  wire  came  from  Washington  and 
the  Spanish  minister  there  has  asked  our  government  to 
prohibit  the  assistance  I  speak  of.  Hello!"  as  a  bunch 
of  copy  is  thrown  upon  his  table,  "the  president  has  issued 
a  proclamation  bearing  on  the  matter.'' 

The  proclamation  is  brief  but  significant.  It  sets  forth 
that,  without  a  violation  of  the  friendly  relations  existing 
between  Spain  and  the  United  States,  this  government 
cannot  countenance  the  fitting  out  of  expeditions  designed 
to  assist  the  insurrectionists  in  Cuba.  A  number  of  United 
States  vessels  have  been  ordered  to  patrol  duty,  and  a 
rigid  surveillance  of  the  coast  will  be  maintained. 

"That  may  be  good  government,  but  it  is  confoundedly 
un-American  in  sentiment,"  remarks  Ashley,  scornfully, 
for  he  is  an  American  through  and  through. 

"The  government's  course  was  clear,"  Chambers  mildly 
observes.  "The  President  could  do  nothing  less.  I  do 
not  imagine,  however,  that  the  patrol  will  be  much  more 
than  perfunctory." 

When  Ashley  reports  at  the  Hemisphere  office  the  next 
day  he  finds  in  his  letter  box  two  yellow  envelopes.  One 
is  from  the  city  editor  and  contains  an  assignment  to  in 
terview  Senor  Rafael  Manada  of  the  Cuban  revolutionary 
society  in  the  United  States.  The  senor  is  stopping  at 
the  Fifth  Avenue  and  a  full  story  on  Cuban  affairs  from 
the  New  York  end  is  wanted. 

"Well  this  is  something  new,  at  any  rate,"  thinks  Jack, 
and  he  tears  open  the  second  envelope.  This  contains 
a  dispatch  dated  from  Raymond,  Vt,  the  night  before, 
and  Ashley  whistles  softly  as  he  comprehends  the  con 
cise  but  thoroughly  interesting  contents: 

"See  you  to-morrow  afternoon  at  your  office.  I  have  found 
Hathaway's  revolver.  Barker." 


90  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  TRAIL. 

"Don  Rafael  Manada?  Yes,  sir!  Front,  show  the 
gentleman  to  No.  48." 

A  few  minutes  later  Ashley  is  ushered  into  one  of  the 
most  sumptuous  and  expensive  suites  in  the  big  hotel. 

He  bows  gracefully  to  the  tall  gentleman  who  advances 
to  meet  his  visitor,  bearing  in  his  hand  the  card  that  has 
preceded  him.  Don  Rafael  is  a  man  at  whom  even  the 
least  observant  would  be  likely  to  take  a  second  glance. 
Of  perhaps  40  years  of  age,  his  hair  of  raven  hue  and 
unusual  abundance  is  still  unflecked  by  gray.  The  face  is 
of  olive  hue,  cleanly  shaven  save  as  to  heavy  mustachios, 
which  by  an  odd  freak  of  nature  are  snow  white;  heavy 
eyebrows  of  the  same  hue  as  the  hair  surmount  eyes  of 
piercing  brilliancy;  a  long,  aquiline  nose,  lips  and  mouth 
a  trifle  too  sensuous  for  the  rest  of  the  features,  com 
plete  a  singularly  interesting  countenance. 

"You  came  from  the  Hemisphere?"  queries  Don  Man 
ada,  in  melodious  tones,  with  hardly  a  trace  of  the  Cas- 
tilian  accent.  "I  am  pleased  t©  greet  a  representative  of 
that  great  journal,  whose  influence  is  always  cast  on  the 
side  of  right  and  justice.  I  read  with  the  deepest  emo 
tions  of  gratitude  this  morning  an  editorial  in  your  jour 
nal  protesting  against  the  proclamation  which  the  admin 
istration  has  issued  against  the  fitting  out  of  expeditions 
designed  to  aid  the  insurrection  in  Cuba.  Your  paper 
properly  urged  that  the  United  States  government  should 
recognize  the  Cubans  as  belligerents.  Ah,  my  dear  sir, 
could  that  be  done,  Cuba  would  be  a  free  republic  within 
the  twelvemonth,"  finishes  Manada,  enthusiastically. 

"It  was  to  secure  an  expression  of  opinion  from  you 
on  the  outlook  in  Cuba  and  the  preparations  being  made 
in  this  country  that  I  have  been  commissioned  to  inter 
view  you,  Don  Rafael,"  says  Jack  Ashley. 

"Anything  that  it  would  be  proper  for  me  to  say,  as  the 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  TRAIL.  &1 

agent  of  the  Cuban  revolutionary  party,  I  shall  be  glad 
to  give,"  continues  Manada,  smilingly. 

And  now  the  Cuban  patriot  becomes  imbued  with  nerv 
ous  energy  as  he  reverts  to  the  absorbing  hope  and  ambi 
tion  of  his  life — the  freedom  of  Cuba.  He  paces  the  floor 
with  erect,  military  tread,  as  he  speaks  rapidly: 

"This  war  is  not  a  capricious  attempt  to  found  an  inde 
pendence  more  to  be  feared  than  useful.  It  is  the  cordial 
congregation  of  Cubans  of  various  origin,  who  are  con 
vinced  that,  in  the  conquest  of  liberty,  rather  than  abject 
abasement,  are  acquired  the  virtues  necessary  to  main 
tain  our  freedom.  This  is  no  race  war. 

"In  the  Spanish  inhabitants  of  Cuba  the  revolutionists 
expect  to  find  such  affectionate  neutrality  or  material  aid, 
that  through  them  the  war  will  be  shorter,  its  disasters 
less  and  the  subsequent  peace  more  easy  and  friendly. 
We  Cubans  began  the  war;  the  Cubans  and  Spanish  to 
gether  will  terminate  it.  If  they  do  not  ill-treat  us,  we 
will  not  ill-treat  them.  Let  them  respect  and  they  will 
be  respected.  Steel  will  answer  to  steel  and  friendship 
to  friendship.  In  the  bosom  of  the  son  of  the  Antilles 
there  is  no  hatred,  and  the  Cuban  salutes  in  death  the 
Spaniard  whom  the  cruelty  of  a  conscript  army  tore  from 
his  home  and  hearth  and  brought  over  to  assassinate  in 
many  bosoms  the  freedom  to  which  he  himself  aspires. 
But  rather  than  salute  him  in  death  the  revolutionists 
would  like  to  welcome  him  in  life." 

"Very  good,  indeed,  Don  Manada,"  comments  Ashley 
as  he  hastily  jots  down  a  skeleton  of  the  impassioned 
words  of  the  Cuban. 

"Now,  to  leave  generalities,"  says  Jack,  "upon  what 
specific  elements  of  strength,  or  of  weakness  on  your 
opponents'  part  do  you  base  your  hopes  of  ultimate 
success?" 

Manada  smiles.  "All  our  elements  of  strength,  nor  all 
the  Spanish  sources  of  weakness,  we  may  not  divulge  yet, 
First,  and  of  this  I  believe  you  newspaper  men  need  not 
be  assured,  the  information  that  comes  from  Cuba  or 
from  Madrid  is  entirely  untrustworthy,  distorted,  colored 
and  manufactured  to  suit  Spanish  ideas  and  hopes.  It 


S2  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

tells  you  that  the  insurrection  is  limited  to  three  or  four 
provinces.  Yet  you  will  notice  to-day's  dispatches  from 
Madrid  state  that  a  blockade  of  every  port  of  Cuba  is 
imminent,  large  and  small,  and  an  additional  squadron  of 
ten  Spanish  gunboats  has  been  dispatched  from  Cadiz 
to  aid  the  big  fleet  now  patrolling  Cuban  waters.  Think 
you  that  the  Madrid  government  would  declare  that 
blockade  if  the  insurrection  were  limited  to  three  or  four 
paltry  provinces?  Bah !  I  can  assure  you,  while  they  may 
not  now  be  ready  or  willing  to  declare  themselves,  yet 
touch  every  Cuban  in  the  heart,  let  him  whisper  to  you  his 
sentiments,  and  you  will  find  them  to  a  man  praying  for 
the  success  of  the  revolution.  You  Americans,  in  the  full 
enjoyment  of  true  liberty,  can  form  but  a  faint  idea  of  the 
real  situation  in  Cuba.  Imagine  a  land  where  no  one 
is  free  to  write  or  say  anything  except  what  the  govern 
ment  judges  deem  proper!  Imagine  a  government  ever 
ready  to  throw  you  into  prison,  confiscate  your  property, 
bring  ruin  to  everything  that  is  dear  to  you  on  earth,  and 
to  set  over  you  a  Spaniard  to  watch  your  acts,  almost 
your  thoughts!  That  is  the  way  we  live  in  Cuba.  Of 
late  the  number  of  these  spies  has  been  increased  by 
hordes.  They  are  not  all  men.  Some  of  them — and  the 
shrewdest  and  most  harmful  to  our  cause — are  women, 
who  ingratiate  themselves  with  prominent  revolutionists, 
sometimes  becoming  possessed  of  invaluable  plans, 
which  they  promptly  reveal  to  the  Spanish  government. 
•It  is  believed  that  some  of  these  women  are  located  in 
cities  in  the  United  States,  where  it  is  thought  their  pres 
ence  may  be  useful  to  spy  upon  the  movements  of  the 
friends  of  Cuba  in  this  country.  But  of  course  that  is  a 
game  two  can  play  at,  and  we  ourselves  are  not  wholly 
unaware  of  the  secret  plans  of  the  enemy." 

"Reference  has  been  made  in  some  of  the  dispatches 
from  Key  West,  Don  Manada,  to  the  fact  that  the  revo 
lutionists  have  become  possessed  of  a  steamer  which  has 
been  remarkably  successful  in  evading  the  Spanish  cruis 
ers  and  landing  men  and  ammunition  from  the  Domin 
ican  and  Florida  coasts?" 

Manada's  lip  curls  scornfully  at  Ashley's  use  of  the 
word  "evading."  Then  he  smiles. 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  TRAIL.  93 

"Did  you  happen  to  read  in  any  of  the  press  dispatches 
an  account  of  the  loss  of  the  Spanish  man-of-war  Mer 
cedes?" 

Ashley  has  seen  a  casual  reference  to  the  disaster. 
"She  ran  on  a  reef  near  the  Great  Exuma,  while  pur 
suing  a  suspected  filibustering  steamer,  did  she  not?" 

"The  Mercedes  was  sunk  in  forty  fathoms  of  water 
in  fair  and  open  fight  with  the  Cuban  cruiser  Pearl  of 
the  Antilles,"  in  slow  and  measured  tones  responds  Ma- 
nada,  his  black  eyes  glittering.  "The  Spanish  govern 
ment  has  strenuously  sought  to  conceal  that  fact,  but  it 
has  leaked  out,  and  only  yesterday  I  received  from 
Le  Director  de  la  Guerra  a  copy  of  El  Terredo's 
report  of  the  battle.  Ah,  that  was  glorious!  The 
Mercedes  went  down  in  less  than  seven  minutes, 
while  the  Pearl  was  unharmed.  Senor  Ashley,  we  have 
to  thank  the  inventive  genius  of  your  countrymen  for  the 
success  of  our  gallant  cruiser,  for  El  Terredo  states  that 
it  was  the  wonderful  effectiveness  of  the  new  dynamite 
cannon  and  the  Yankee  gunner  that  accomplished  the 
feat." 

Ashley's  unfailing  scent  for  news  assures  him  that  this 
interview  is  good  for  at  least  a  two-column  leader  in  the 
Hemisphere.  Here  is  information  that  will  make  a  sensa 
tion  in  the  morning.  The  American  public  has  been 
wholly  in  the  dark  as  to  this  new  element  in  the  insurrec 
tion,  this  Cuban  cruiser,  with  her  patent  dynamite  gun 
and  Yankee  gunner,  that  has  destroyed  one  of  the  most 
powerful  of  Spain's  cruiser ;. 

"El  Terredo?  is  he  the  captain  of  the  Pearl  of  the  An 
tilles.  Don  Manada?" 

"He  is,  and  one  of  the  bravest  and  most  successful  of 
our  commanders  on  land  as  well  as  sea.  Why,  there  is 
not  a  cruiser  of  the  Spanish  navy  now  in  Cuban  waters 
that  alone  would  dare  engage  the  Pearl!  They  are  well 
aware  of  her  prowess  and  the  skill  and  bravery  of  her 
commander,  whom  they  have  rightly  named  'El  Terredo/ 
'the  terror.' 

"Then  we  have  other  plans  the  details  of  which  cannot 
be  revealed.  Do  you  remember  how  the  sinking  of  De 


94  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

Gama's  Brazilian  ironclad  was  effected  in  the  revolution 
in  that  country?  It  did  not  require  another  ma*-of-war 
to  destroy  her.  Only  a  little  instrument  less  than  five  feet 
in  length — whish!  boom! — and  the  resistless  water  is 
gushing  in  a  torrent  through  the  sides  of  the  ironclad. 
Ah,  warfare  is  different  in  these  modern  days,  Senor  Ash 
ley,  and  victory  does  not  always  rest  on  the  side  of  the 
heaviest  guns." 

"It  is  said  in  a  Washington  dispatch,  Don  Manada, 
that  the  Spanish  minister  has  received  information  that  a 
formidable  filibustering  expedition  is  about  to  leave  this 
city  for  Cuba.  Have  you  any  knowledge  of  the  fact?'' 

Manada  shrugs  his  shoulders.  "Quien  sabe?  Are  n»t 
all  vessels  clearing  for  any  port  obliged  to  obtain  papers 
stating  their  destination?  And  does  not  the  President's 
proclamation  warn  against  the  shipping  of  arms  and  am 
munition  to  Cuba  from  American  ports?  But  of  this  be 
assured — Cuban  patriots  will  not  be  without  arms  and 
ammunition  to  bring  this  war  to  a  successful  conclusion. 
It  is  true  that  is  what  we  most  need  now.  Ammunition 
especially  is  not  as  plentiful  as  we  could  wish,  but  had 
we  none  at  all,  with  his  trusty  machete  a  Cuban  patriot  is 
more  than  a  match  for  a  brace  of  the  puny,  boyish  con 
scripts  Spain  is  sending  to  find  early  graves  on  Cuban 
soil.  In  the  battle  of  Siguanoa,  of  which  also  I  have  just 
received  an  authentic  account,  our  comrades  finally 
charged  with  their  machetes,  which  they  handle  with 
wonderful  skill,  and  completely  routed  the  Spanish  troops. 
The  actual  fighting  masses  of  the  revolutionists,  senor, 
the  soldados  raso,  are  no  mean  soldiers,  even  from  a 
northerner's  point  of  view.  And  they  are  not  all  Cuban 
born  or  Spanish  born  who  have  settled  in  Cuba  and  be 
come  identified  with  the  island.  You  would  be  surprised, 
I  doubt  not,  to  learn  that  not  a  few  of  your  own  national 
ity  are  fighting  for  human  liberty  on  the  side  of  the  revo 
lutionists." 

"And  the  character  of  the  Spanish  officers?"  inquires 
Ashley,  getting  more  and  more  interested. 

Manada  frowns.  "Gen.  Truenos,  the  new  captain-gen 
eral,  we  know  as  yet  only  by  reputation.  His  chief  of 


THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  TRAIL.  95 

staff,  the  Madrid  papers  state,  is  to  be  Gen.  Murillo,  who 
is  now  in  this  country — in  this  city,  if  I  mistake  not.  He 
poses  as  a  diplomat  and  is  the  head  of  the  spy  bureau. 
Of  the  other  leading  Spanish  officers  in  Cuba,  they  are  of 
the  usual  foreign-service  character.  Some  veterans,  some 
young  and  inexperienced,  seeking  to  win  laurels  in  this 
war,  a  few  Spanish  noblemen,  whom  the  exigencies  of  the 
family  purse  have  forced  into  the  army.  By  the  way,  at 
tached  to  the  new  captain-general's  staff,  I  learn  there  is 
a  young  American,  a  sugar  planter.  His  name,  I  am  told, 
was  Felton,  but  he  changed  it  to  Alvarez.  More  Spanish, 
you  see." 

Felton!  A  question  is  on  Ashley's  tongue,  when  the 
utter  absurdity  of  connecting  Ralph  Felton's  identity 
with  that  of  a  young  Cuban  planter  occurs  to  him  and  he 
refrains. 

"Well,  Don  Manada,  I  am  obliged  to  you  for  the  half- 
hour  you  have  accorded  me,  and  I  only  hope  your  words 
will  have  as  convincing  an  effect  on  the  readers  of  the 
Hemisphere  as  they  have  had  on  me." 

"Thank  you,  Senor  Ashley.  I  shall  ever  be  pleased 
to  meet  you  when  your  duties  may  oblige  you  to  seek  one 
of  the  Cuban  revolutionary  party.  Adios." 

"Well,"  remarks  the  interviewer  to  himself,  as  he  stops 
a,  moment  to  strengthen  his  memory  by  a  fresh  Havana, 
"if  my  friend  of  the  bleached  mustachios  is  not  a  rainbow 
chaser  of  the  latest  approved  political  character,  Gen. 
Truenos  and  the  Spanish  army — and  navy,  too — have 
considerable  work  cut  out  for  them  in  the  vicinity  of  the 
Caribbean  Sea.  Hello !"  he  exclaims,  staring  at  a  grace 
ful  figure  that  is  crossing  Twenty-third  Street  in  his 
direction.  "If  that  isn't  Miss  Louise  Hathaway  of  Ray 
mond,  Vt,  my  memory  for  faces  is  entirely  destroyed." 


96  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

A  CUP  OF  CHOCOLATE  AT  MAILLARD'S. 

"It  is  Miss  Hathaway!" 

"Why,  Mr.  Ashley!"' 

"Then  I  am  not  quite  forgotten,"  smiles  Jack,  as  he 
takes  the  little  black-gloved  hand. 

"Forgotten?  Ah,  no,  indeed.  I  was  only  startled  to 
meet  one  familiar  face  amid  this  never-ending  procession 
of  strangers.  But  this,  I  presume,  is  your  native  heath, 
Mr.  Ashley?  How  do  you  carry  the  memory  of  so  many 
faces?"  as  Ashley  bows  for  the  dozenth  time  toward  the 
stream  of  pedestrians. 

"That  is  a  part  of  our  business,  Miss  Hathaway.  A 
newspaper  man  acquires  a  passing  acquaintance  with  all 
classes  of  society.  But  to  drop  shop  talk,  tell  me  of  Ray 
mond  and  of  yourself.  I  feel  quite  an  interest  in  the  quaint 
old  town.  Here  is  Maillard's  close  by.  Suppose  we  drop 
in  and  have  a  cup  of  chocolate.  Oh,  it  is  quite  the  thing," 
smiles  Jack,  as  Miss  Hathaway  hesitates  a  moment. 
"Everybody  goes  to  Maillard's  after  a  shopping  tour." 

"Then,  as  we  are  in  Rome,  we  must  imitate  the  Rom 
ans,"  she  acquiesces.  "For  surely  these  bundles  must  be 
quite  sufficient  to  convict  me  of  having  been  shopping." 

When  she  is  snugly  ensconced  in  an  alcove,  with  a 
steaming  cup  of  the  beverage  so  dear  to  the  feminine 
heart  before  her,  Jack  studies  her  face  across  the  tiny 
table. 

More  beautiful  if  that  were  possible,  than  ever,  he  de 
cides,  watching  the  shifting  color  in  the  rounded  cheek; 
with  more  animation — yes,  decidedly  more  animation; 
quite  a  different  being  from  the  doubly  bereaved  daugh 
ter  of  the  dead  cashier  of  nearly  a  year  ago.  But  what 
is  she  doing  in  New  York?  thinks  Jack,  with  a  sudden 
twinge  in  the  cardiac  region  that  astonishes  even  himself. 
It  cannot  be  that  she  has  heard  from  Derrick  Ames,  and 

besides,  her  sister What  rot,  he  mentally  concludes, 

as  the  subject  of  his  thoughts  suddenly  looks  up  and 
catches  his  puzzled  expression. 


A  CUP  OP  CHOCOLATE  AT  MAILLARD'S.  9Y 

Miss  Hathaway 's  eyes  twinkle.  "Has  it  just  occurred 
to  you  that  you  have  left  your  pocketbook  at  home?"  she 
asks.  "Your  expression  was  just  such  as  the  humorous 
artists  attach  to  the  subjects  of  such  unfortunate  contre 
temps." 

"Ah,  but  that  seldom  does  happen  in  real  life,  Miss 
Hathaway.  No;  my  sole  earthly  possessions  are  at  this 
moment  resting  securely  in  the  bottom  of  one  small 
pocket.  But  what  lucky  chance  brought  you  within 
range  of  my  defective  vision  on  Broadway  this  after 
noon?" 

"Oh,  I  have  been  a  dweller  in  the  metropolis  since  last 
Saturday.  We,  that  is  Mr.  Felton  and  myself,  are  en 
route  to  Cuba." 

"To  Cuba!  Pardon  me,  but  why  to  that  war-racked 
isle?  You  see,  I  have  just  returned  from  interviewing  a 
native  of  Cuba  on  the  situation  there,  and  his  description 
hardly  makes  it  out  as  a  desirable  watering-place  just  at 
present." 

Miss  Hathaway  laughs,  a  trifle  nervously.  "Perhaps 
it  is  rather  an  odd  place  to  go  this  spring,  and  while  I 
had  a  great  desire  to  vi'sit  the  country  I  really  had  no 
serious  idea  of  gratifying  the  wish.  But  one  evening 
while  I  was  thinking  of  the  matter,  Mr.  Felton  suddenly 
asked  me  how  I  would  like  to  go  to  Cuba.  I  said  I  would 
be  delighted  to  go  to  escape  the  chill  winds  of  March, 
and  to  my  great  surprise  he  suggested  that  we  make 
preparations  and  start  at  once  for  New  York.  So  here 
we  are,  and  on  Saturday  we  sail  for  tropic  climes.  But 
do  you  think  there  is  any  danger  to  Americans  traveling 
in  Cuba?  I  thought — I  had  read — that  the  disturbances 
were  limited  to  some  of  the  far  inland  districts  and  that 
there  was  no  trouble  in  Havana  and  the  larger  cities." 

Ashley  pulls  his  mustache  thoughtfully.  "No,  I  do  not 
see  how  there  can  be  possible  danger  for  you,"  he  says  at 
last  "Be  sure,  to  avoid  any  possible  annoyance,  to  get 
your  passports  before  leaving  New  York.  By  Jove,"  he 
murmurs  under  his  breath,  "if  the  Hemisphere  should 
send  a  man  to  Cuba,  and  I  that  man — well,  that  wouldn't 
be  half-bad." 


98  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"But  why  should  Mr.  Felton  desire  to  go  to  Cuba?" 
Ashley  asks.  "I  fancied  all  his  interests  were  in  Ver 
mont." 

"He  says  that  he  has  some  property  that  requires  his 
attention  there,  a  sugar  plantation,  I  fancy,  or  something 
of  the  sort.  Anyway,  he  is  quite  anxious  to  go." 

A  sugar  plantation  in  Cuba!  Jack  draws  a  long 
breath  and  his  active  mind  reverts  to  his  interview  with 
Don  Manada.  Felton-Alvarez  of  the  captain-general's 
staff,  a  young  American  planter!  The  son  has  evidently 
forsworn  his  country  and  by  joining  the  Spanish  army 
has  become  a  Spanish  citizen.  Therefore  he  undoubt 
edly  cannot  be  extradited.  But  the  father? 

"How  long  does  Mr.  Felton  contemplate  remaining  in 
Cuba?''  Ashley  asks,  carelessly. 

"That  will  depend  upon  his  inclinations  and  the  con 
dition  of  his  business  affairs.'' 

"That  means  indefinitely,"  Jack  thinks.  "Cyrus  Fel 
ton  must  not  go  to  Cuba!"  Then  aloud:  "Miss  Hatha 
way,  pardon  me  if  I  revive  unpleasant  memories,  but 
the  deep  personal  interest  I  took  in  the  case  must  be  my 
apology.  Have  you  head  from  your  sister — since — since 
the  tragedy?" 

For  a  moment  Miss  Hathaway  is  silent,  her  face  cloud 
ing  with  the  sad  thoughts  of  that  last  fateful  Memorial 
Day.  "Mr.  Ashley,"  she  says  at  last,  looking  him  full  in 
the  face,  "I  have  received  two  letters  from  my  sister 
Helen.  She  is  well,  and  I  trust  happy.  She  was  married 
in  this  city  the  day  after  they — she — left  Raymond." 

"To  Derrick  Ames?" 

Louise  nods. 

"Are  they  now  residing  in  the  city?" 

"No;  they  are  not  now  in  this  country — I  should  say 
this  part  of  the  country,"  she  adds,  hastily. 

For  a  moment  a  silence  falls  and  both  absently  sip  their 
chocolate,  busy  with  their  thoughts.  Then  Ashley  re 
marks,  smilingly: 

"Apropos  of  nothing,  Miss  Hathaway,  did  you  ever 
hear  of  the  great  French  ball,  the  annual  terpsichorean 
revel  of  Gotham?" 


A  CUP  OF  CHOCOLATE  AT  MAILLARD'S.  99 

"Certainly,  I  have  read  about  it.  I  gather  that  it  is 
not  always  strictly — well,  not  exactly  in  the  same  cate 
gory  with  the  patriarchs'  ball." 

"No — not  precisely,"  admits  Ashley.  "What  I  was 
leading  up  to  is  this:  I  suppose  I  shall  be  assigned  to 
do  the  ball  for  the  Hemisphere  to-morrow  evening — I 
have  done  it  for  the  last  two  years — and  a  friend  of  mine 
kindly  presented  to  me  a  pocketful  of  tickets.  Now,  1 
know  you  would  enjoy  looking  in  on  the  brilliant  scene 
for  an  hour  or  two  in  the  early  part  of  the  evening." 

"Why,  Mr.  Ashley,  I  really  do  not  see  how  we  could. 
It  would  hardly  be  proper." 

"Not  perhaps  to  mingle  with  the  rush,  but  as  a  casual 
looker-on  in  Verona  the  propriety  could  scarcely  be 
questioned.  A  mask,  a  box  where  you  could  sit  and 
listen  to  the  really  good  music  and  watch  the  glitter  and 
gayety,  I  believe  you  would  recall  the  hour  whiled  away 
as  one  of  thorough  enjoyment.  Besides — and  here  is  the 
selfish  part  of  my  proposition — it  would  render  the  affair 
less  of  an  old  story  to  me.  You  must  really  say  'yes,' " 
persists  Ashley,  as  Misp  Hathaway  hesitates,  with  the  in 
evitable  result. 

"Well,  if  Mr.  Felton  is  willing  to  pose  as  a  'chaperon' 
for  a  brief  space,  perhaps  I  may  consent  to  assist  the 
Hemisphere.'' 

"I  assure  you  that  that  appreciative  journal  will  be 
deeply  grateful.  Where  shall  I  call  for  your  ultimatum:" 

"We  are  stopping  at  the  St.  James.  And  now  I  must 
hurry  home  to  examine  my  purchases.  Thank  you  so 
much  for  your  kindness,  Mr.  Ashley.  I  am  so  glad  to 
have  met  you  again.  Good-by." 

"Au  revoir — until  the  morrow,"  Jack  responds,  as  Miss 
Hathaway' s  elegant  figure  threads  its  way  through  the 
throng.  "1  wonder  what  the  straight-laced  Vermont 
maiden  would  say  if  she  could  look  into  the  wine-room 
of  the  garden  about  an  hour  before  the  French  ball  makes 
its  last  kick.  But  she  won't,  though.  The  first  hour  or 
two  of  the  function  is  as  decorous  as  an  afternoon  tea  on 
Fifth  Avenue — rather  more  so,  I  fancy.  And  now  to 


100  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

the  office  to  fire  the  Cuban  heart  with  Don  Manada's 
screed." 

But  seated  at  his  desk  at  the  Hemisphere  office,  Ash 
ley's  thoughts  persist  in  straying  away  from  the  yellow 
sheets  he  is  rapidly  covering  with  the  Manada  interview. 

The  Raymond  tragedy  mingles  with  thoughts  of  Cuba. 
His  previously  conceived  ideas  are  undergoing  a  decided 
metamorphosis.  The  knowledge  that  the  elder  Felton 
is  going  to  Cuba,  where  his  son,  according  to  the  descrip 
tion  of  Manada,  is  apparently  settled,  and  for  a  long 
period,  if  not  forever,  suggests  to  the  newspaper  man  the 
conclusion  that  Mr.  Felton  must  have  been  aware  of  his 
son's  movements  since  the  sudden  departure  from  Ray 
mond;  may  even  have  counseled  that  flight.  Nay,  more, 
that  father  and  son  are  jointly  implicated  in  the  death  of 
Cashier  Hathaway.  The  theory  just  evolved  grows 
stronger  the  more  Jack  considers  the  circumstances.  On 
Cyrus  Felton,  then,  depends  the  unraveling  of  the  mys 
tery.  And  he  left  Raymond  suddenly,  according  to  Miss 
Hathaway 's  admission.  Barker,  judging  from  his  mes 
sage  on  the  finding  of  the  revolver,  must  have  been  in 
Raymond  before  or  during  the  departure  of  Cyrus  Felton. 
Is  it  not  possible,  then,  that  the  ex-bank  president  be 
came  possessed  of  the  knowledge  that  Barker  is  again 
actively  at  work  on  the  case;  that  he  further  became 
aware  that  Barker  had,  or  was  likely  to  get,  some  import 
ant  clew,  such  as  the  discovery  of  the  revolver,  for  in 
stance;  that  he  considered  discretion  the  better  part  of 
valor  and  determined  to  flee  the  country  and  join  his  son 
in  Cuba? 

Ashley's  busy  pen  ceases  to  skim  over  the  paper  for  a 
moment,  as  he  rears  this  dazzling  edifice. 

"I  believe  I  have  struck  the  bull's-eye,"  he  reflects. 
"If  only  Barker  has  a  little  more  evidence  to  back  up 
the  finding  of  the  revolver,  Miss  Hathaway  may  not  take 
that  trip  to  Cuba  after  all — at  least,  not  with  her  present 
amiable  traveling  companion/' 

A  few  moments  later  the  big  batch  of  copy,  the  result 
of  Ashley's  visit  to  Don  Manada,  is  tossed  upon  the  desk 
of  the  city  editor.  Then,  still  preoccupied  and  unusually 


BARKER   DECIDES   TO   STRIKE.  101 

untalkative  for  jovial  Jack  Ashley,  the  interviewer  has 
again  drawn  on  overcoat  and  gloves  and  is  leaving  the 
entrance  to  the  Hemisphere  office  when  a  hand  is  dropped 
on  his  shoulder,  as  Detective  Barker  earnestly  greets 
him: 

"You're  just  the  man  I  want  to  see.  Where  can  we 
indulge  in  a  quiet  talk  for  half  an  hour?" 

"Come  right  up  to  the  cable  editor's  room.  He  won't 
be  in  for  an  hour  or  two." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
BARKER  DECIDES  TO   STRIKE. 

"Well,  my  boy,"  begins  Barker,  "it's  a  long  lane  that 
has  no  turn,  and  I  think  we  have  reached  the  beginning 
of  the  end  of  this  Hathaway  mystery.  There  is  the 
weapon  that  sent  Roger  Hathaway  to  eternity  Memorial 
Day  of  last  year,''  handing  it  to  Ashley,  with  a  complacent 
air.  "I  am  not  a  betting  man,  or  I  would  wager  a 
reasonable  sum  that,  ere  the  anniversary  of  the  crime 
rolls  around,  the  murderer  will  be  safely  incarcerated 
in  the  Mansfield  County  jail  in  Vermont.'' 

Ashley  examines  curiously  the  weapon  Barker  has  pro 
duced.  It  is  an  ordinary  32-caliber  Smith  &  Wesson 
revolver,  of  the  bull-dog  variety,  covered  with  rust,  and 
all  of  the  five  chambers,  with  possibly  one  exception,  con 
tain  unused  cartridges. 

"Yes,  there  is  one  empty  chamber,"  responds  Barker, 
as  Ashley  attempts  ineffectually  to  turn  the  rusty  cylinder, 
"and  that  sent  poor  old  Hathaway  out  of  the  world.  And 
now  I  will  tell  you  of  some  important  clews  that  I  have 
succeeded  in  running  down  since  I  saw  you  last. 

"You  know  I  subscribed  for  the  Raymond  local  news 
paper,  and  a  mighty  good  investment  that  $1.25  proved. 
Week  before  last  the  paper  contained  a  local  item  about 
a  boy's  finding  a  revolver  on  the  bank  of  Wild  River. 
It  was  only  a  ten-to-one  shot  that  the  revolver  picked  up 
by  the  river  bank  was  Hathaway's  missing  gun,  but  I 


102  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

took  the  short  end  and  posted  off  to  Raymond.  The 
result  of  my  trip  you  now  hold  in  your  hand. 

"The  little  chap  who  found  the  revolver  had  picked  it 
up  close  to  the  opposite  bank  from  which  it  had  been 
thrown.  It  was  quite  a  stretch  beyond  the  deep  pool 
that  we  explored.  You  see  I  was  fully  a  hundred  yards 
from  Felton  when  he  hurled  the  revolver  into  the  stream, 
and  I  miscalculated  the  force  he  put  into  the  throw.  His 
feeling  of  loathing  for  the  hateful  weapon  was  such  that 
he  hurled  it  nearly  across  the  river.  Even  then,  it  would 
have  been  covered  by  two  or  three  feet  of  water  had  not 
the  river  been  dammed  last  fall,  a  few  rods  above  the 
place,  to  furnish  power  for  a  sawmill.  That  left  only  an 
inch  or  two  of  water  over  the  revolver,  and  little  Jimmy 
Jones,  or  whatever  his  name  was,  found  it  there  while 
prowling  about  the  river  bank.  It  is  Roger  Hathaway 's 
revolver,  too,  beyond  a  doubt.  I  had  Sibley,  who  was 
teller  of  the  bank,  and  who  has  seen  it  in  Hathaway's 
desk  a  thousand  times,  examine  it,  and  he  positively 
identifies  it. 

"So  far,  so  good.  That  revolver  rivets  a  mighty  strong 
link,  I  take  it,  to  the  chain  we  have  already  forged  about 
Cyrus  Felton.  But  the  situation  had  become  somewhat 
complicated,  I  found  after  I  secured  possession  of  the 
revolver.  Felton  has  skipped  from  Raymond,  taking  the 
Hathaway  girl  with  him,  and  evidently  does  not  intend 
to  return  for  some  time,  if  indeed  at  all.  Consequently 
our  next  and  most  imperative  duty  is  to  find  where  he 
now  is  and  see  that  he  does  not  get  beyond  our  reach." 

"I  can  do  that  in  five  minutes,"  Ashley  quietly  assures 
the  detective.  "Cyrus  Felton  and  Miss  Louise  Hatha 
way  are  now  at  the  St.  James  Hotel  in  this  city.  They 
sail  for  Cuba  next  Saturday." 

"Good,"  remarks  the  phlegmatic  Barker.  "That  is 
luck  on  a  par  with  finding  the  revolver.  But  when  Cyrus 
Felton  leaves  New  York  it  will  be  to  go  back  to  Ver 
mont.  Bound  for  Cuba,  eh?  Why  did  he  select  that 
country  instead  of  Europe,  I  wonder?" 

"Because  his  son  is  in  Cuba.  Barker,  I  opine  that  it 
will  be  necessary  for  both  of  us  to  revise  our  theories  of 


BARKER   DECIDES   TO   STRIKE.  103 

the  murder,"  continues  Ashley.  "In  the  judgment  of  the 
undersigned,  both  Feltons,  father  and  son,  are  equally 
implicated  in  that  crime.  As  to  which  actually  fired  the 
fatal  shot,  I  am  not  prepared  to  say.  But  I  am  confident 
that  both  were  in  the  bank  when  Hathaway  was  shot.  1 
learned  to-day  that  there  is  a  young  American,  a  planter, 
in  Cuba  who  has  joined  the  Spanish  army  as  an  officer  on 
the  staff  of  the  captain-general.  His  name  is,  or  was, 
Felton.  Now  comes  the  senior  Felton,  en  route  to  Cuba. 
Why  should  he  go  to  Cuba  just  at  this  time  while  the 
island  is  in  the  throes  of  insurrection?  He  tells  Miss 
Hathaway  that  he  has  business  interests  there — a  sugar 
plantation.  Isn't  it  clear  that  he  is  going  to  join  his  son?" 

Barker  taps  his  forehead  reflectively.  "The  idea  is 
plausible,"  he  admits.  "But  what  in  the  name  of  the 
great  hornspoon  is  he  taking  Miss  Hathaway  there  for? 
It  isn't  possible  that  he  is  so  cold-blooded,  so  absolutely 
devoid  of  conscience,  that  he  would  wed  the  daughter  of 
the  man  he  had  slain?" 

"Decidedly  not,"  returns  Ashley,  with  very  like  a  snort 
of  disgust  at  the  suggestion  of  the  possibility  of  Louise 
Hathaway  becoming  Cyrus  Felton's  wife.  "Miss  Hatha 
way  is  Felton's  ward,  and  of  course  he  is  obliged  to  take 
her  with  him.  Besides  she  herself  is  anxious  to  go  to 
Cuba.  She  told  me  so  this  afternoon." 

"Anxious  to  go  herself,  eh?"  repeats  Barker.  "Well, 
there  is  no  accounting  for  tastes.  I  think  if  I  were  going 
on  a  pleasure  trip,  however,  I  should  select  some  other 
spot  than  that  home  of  Yellow  Jack  and  the  machete. 
But" — the  detective's  forehead  is  wrinkled  in  thought — 
"you  don't  suppose  she  has  any  friends  in  Cuba  whom 
she  is  anxious  to  see— her  sister  or  Derrick  Ames?'' 

Ashley  considers  this  possibility  a  moment.  "It  is  pos 
sible,"  he  exclaims.  "She  admitted  she  had  received  let 
ters  from  her  sister,  who  was  well  and  happy — but  not  in 
this  country,  she  said  at  first,  and  then  changed  it  to  'not 
in  this  section  of  the  country.'  Ames  and  her  sister  may 
be  in  Cuba,  as  well  as  Ralph  Felton;  but  not,  I  will 
wager  a  good  deal,  in  the  same  vicinity — not,  at  least, 
if  Ames  knows  it.  Barker,  it  seems  to  me  that  instead 
of  this  matter  becoming  simplified  it  is  daily  growing 


104  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

more  complicated.  The  thing  for  us  to  do  is  to  cut  the 
Gordian  knot  at  once  and  bring  matters  to  a  climax." 

"There  is  only  one  way  to  do  it." 

"Exactly.  Arrest  Cyrus  Felton,  and  charge  him  with 
being  the  murderer  of  Roger  Hathaway,  or  an  accom 
plice  before  or  after  the  act." 

Barker  picks  up  the  revolver  again. 

"We  have  got  a  good  deal  of  strong  evidence  against 
him,"  he  says,  slowly;  "yet  I  should  like  to  get  the  son  in 
the  same  net.  With  the  two  of  them  jointly  accused 
and  jointly  tried  I  am  certain  we  could  unravel  the  mys 
tery.  I  have  evidence  against  the  elder  Felton  that  I 
have  not  yet  told  you ;  in  fact,  what  I  consider  as  a  suffi 
cient  motive  for  the  crime.  The  absence  of  a  good, 
healthy  motive,  you  know,  was  the  weak  link  in  our  chain. 

"The  president  of  those  two  banks,  I  am  convinced, 
was  short  in  his  accounts  with  both  institutions.  In  other 
words,  he  had  used  the  bank's  securities  to  tide  over  his 
own  financial  affairs,  which  I  have  discovered,  were  not 
in  the  flourishing  condition  supposed.  Although  he  was 
aware  that  Felton's  accounts  were  overdrawn,  as  was 
evidenced  by  the  writing  on  the  blotter,  Hathaway  was 
apparently  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  the  president  had 
taken  many  of  the  bank's  securities  and  hypothecated 
them  for  his  own  account.  That  was  done  by  the  presi 
dent  through  the  connivance  of  his  son,  the  bookkeeper. 
Get  the  idea?" 

Ashley  nods. 

"Now  then:  You  will  recall  that  Cyrus  Felton  told 
you,  aftei  the  murder,  that  nearly  $50,000  in  available 
cash  and  about  half  as  much  more  in  securities  had  been 
stolen.  He  testified  at  the  inquest  that  some  securities 
had  been  taken.  My  theory  is  that  not  one  single  one 
of  those  securities  was  taken  from  the  bank  that  night. 
'Cause  why?  Because  they  had  previously  been  ex 
tracted  by  Cyrus  Felton  and  his  son.  And  the  cash? 
That,  I  believe  was  Ralph  Felton's  share  for  his  part  in 
the  tragedy.  Perhaps  father  and  son  had  planned  for 
the  latter  to  rob  the  bank  that  night — the  former  anxious 
for  the  covering  up  of  the  loss  of  the  securities,  the  latter 


BARKER    DECIDES    TO    STRIKE.  105 

covetous  of  the  money.  The  time  was  drawing  near 
when  the  annual  examination  of  the  savings  bank  was 
due.  It  was  to  have  taken  place  in  June.  Then  the  dis 
covery  that  many  of  the  'jackets'  that  should  contain 
securities  were  empty  was  inevitable.  But  Cashier  Hath 
away  was  at  the  bank  that  night.  The  son  may  have 
been  concealed  in  that  closet,  awaiting  his  opportunity. 
The  cashier,  no  longer  willing  to  permit  the  president's 
overdrafts,  wrote  that  imperative  note  to  Cyrus  Felton. 
The  latter  visited  the  bank.  An  altercation  ensued. 
Heated  words  were  uttered.  Hathaway  may  have  dis 
covered  the  loss  of  the  securities.  The  president  and 
cashier,  old  men  both,  engaged  in  a  scuffle.  Perhaps  the 
president  sought  to  wrest  the  key  to  the  vault  from  the 
cashier's  hands.  At  any  rate,  a  struggle.  Ralph  Felton 
leaped  from  his  hiding-place,  and  seizing  the  cashier's 
revolver,  which  he  knew  was  kept  in  the  desk,  rushed 
to  the  assistance  of  his  father.  The  fatal  shot,  and — father 
and  son  gazed  in  dismay  at  each  other  across  the  dead 
body  of  the  faithful  cashier.  The  rest  is  simple  of  explan 
ation — the  rifling  of  the  vault  and  the  subsequent  flight 
of  the  son.  Ashley,  that  is  my  revised  theory  of  the  mur 
der  of  Roger  Hathaway.  What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"It  is  worthy  of  your  perspecuity,  Barker,  and  in  some 
respects  it  appears  flawless.  Yet — well,  sometimes  I 
have  a  sort  of  intuition  that  we  are  off  the  right  track 
altogether.  Ah,  Barker,  if  we  could  but  find  that  chap 
I  saw  in  the  bushes  that  morning,  Ernest  Stanley. 
Now  that  you  have  revised  your  theory,  and  in  the  light 
of  recent  developments,  I  feel  more  than  ever  that  Stan 
ley  possesses  the  key  that  will  unlock  the  inner  doors  of 
the  mystery. 

"However,  that  is  neither  here  nor  there,  for  Ernest 
Stanley  has  as  completely  vanished  as  though  the  earth 
had  opened  and  swallowed  him  up.  It  is  almost  inexpli 
cable." 

"No  stranger  than  the  fading  away  of  Derrick  Ames 
and  Helen  Hathaway.  You  know  we  traced  them  to  this 
city,  and  the  most  searching  investigation  by  both  the 
metropolitan  police  and  our  own  men  could  not  find  them 


106  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

or  ascertain  for  a  certainty  whether  they  went  west  or 
east. 

"But  to  return  to  the  Feltons.  Those  two  missing 
leaves  from  the  bank  ledger  could  a  tale  unfold,  I  fancy, 
in  relation  to  Cyrus  Felton's  precise  relations  with  the 
bank.  Yes,  on  the  whole,  I  believe  we  have  sufficient 
evidence  to  strike.  He  is  at  the  St.  James,  you  say?  I 
guess  I  had  better  arrest  him  at  once,  and  then,  if  he  de 
clines  to  go  back  to  Vermont  without  extradition  papers, 
I  can  proceed  to  Montpelier  to-morrow  and  get  the  nec 
essary  documents  in  season  to  start  back  to  Raymond 
by  Friday — unlucky  day  for  him,  I  fancy.  Well,  old 
man,  you  will  have  to  spill  a  whole  bottle  of  ink  on  this, 
I  suppose.  Will  you  spring  the  full  story  in  the 
morning?" 

Jack  starts  suddenly.  "By  Jove !''  he  exclaims,  looking 
at  the  detective,  with  a  rueful  glance,  "it  seems  like  a 
brutally  cold-blooded  thing  to  say,  but  do  you  know,  I 
have  invited  Felton  and  Miss  Hathaway  to  look  in  on 
the  French  ball  to-morrow  evening,  and  now — if  the 
deed  wasn't  an  apparent  refinement  of  cruelty,  I  would 
ask  you  to  postpone  the  arrest  of  Felton  till  day  after  to 
morrow." 

"You  are  positive  he  does  not  contemplate  sailing  for 
Cuba  till  Saturday?"  inquires  Barker. 

"So  Miss  Hathaway  said.  And,  yes."  Jack's  eye  has 
run  hastily  down  the  advertised  dates  of  sailings  in  the 
Hemisphere.  "The  Mallory  Line  steamer,  City  of  Callao, 
sails  for  Havana  and  the  West  Indies  on  Saturday.  That 
is  the  steamer  they  are  evidently  booked  for.  But  to 
make  assurance  doubly  sure  I  will  telephone  to  the  office 
of  the  steamship  line  and  ascertain  if  staterooms  have 
been  secured  for  them." 

Barker  nods  approvingly  at  the  precaution. 

"Yes,"  the  reply  comes  over  the  wire,  "Mr.  Cyrus 
Felton  and  Miss  Hathaway  are  booked  for  the  Callao." 

"For  Havana?" 

"Yes;  for  Havana." 

"That  settles  that,  then,"  observes  Barker,  cheerfully. 
"Felto"h  can  enjoy  his  little  fling  at  the  garden,  and  sub- 


BARKER    DECIDES    TO   STRIKE.  107 

sequently  have  something  to  think  about  while  he  awaits 
the  action  of  the  grand  jury." 

Inured  as  he  is  to  tragic  scenes  and  happenings,  Jack 
winces  slightly  at  thought  of  the  part  he  expects  to  play 
in  acting  as  the  "guide,  philosopher  and  friend"  of  Cyrus 
Felton  on  probably  his  last  night  of  liberty. 

"By  the  way,"  he  remarks,  "you  said  Felton  had  made 
preparations  for  an  extended  absence  from  Raymond. 
Did  he  cause  that  to  become  generally  known  in  the 
town?" 

"Per  contra,  as  the  lawyers  say,  no  one  in  Raymond 
had  any  idea  that  he  contemplated  a  trip  to  Cuba,  under 
standing  that  he  is  off  on  a  business  trip  to  New  York. 
A  little  judicious  investigation  revealed  the  fact  that  he 
had  quietly  severed  every  business  tie  that  should  connect 
him  with  Raymond.  Even  his  house,  I  found,  he  has 
mortgaged  to  the  chimneys,  and  then  leased  for  a  period 
of  ten  years  to  a  western  man,  to  whom,  by  the  way,  he 
has  disposed  of  his  interest  in  the  quarries.  His  share 
in  the  bank  block  he  sold  two  months  ago,  taking  a  mort 
gage  for  two-thirds  the  purchase  price,  but  this  mort 
gage  he  last  week  transferred  to  the  Vermont  Life  In 
surance  Company,  receiving  cash  therefor.  Even  his 
horses  have  been  shipped  to  Boston  and  sold.  All  this 
Felton  has  accomplished  so  quietly  that,  as  I  said  before, 
no  one  in  Raymond  suspects  that  he  is  not  as  deeply  in 
terested  financially  in  the  town  as  ever. 

"Well,  on  the  whole,"  finishes  Barker,  "I  am  glad  we 
have  concluded  to  postpone  the  arrest  a  couple  of  days, 
for  I  have  some  personal  matters  I  must  attend  to. 
What  have  you  on  hand  to-night?'' 

"Just  an  hour  or  so  at  the  Madison  Square  Garden. 
Come  to  dinner  with  me  and  we'll  go  to  the  Garden 
together.  I  want  to  talk  this  matter  over  further,"  says 
Ashley. 

Barker  acquiesces,  and  as  the  newspaper  man  leads  the 
way  to  the  street  he  murmurs  to  himself: 

"So  the  blow  falls  on  Wednesday.  Well,  it  will  make 
one  of  the  most  interesting  'beats'  in  the  history  of  the 
Hemispher0  and  I  guess  I  had  better  begin  on  the  story 
to-night." 


108  tNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
PHILLIP  VAN  ZANDT. 

"What  are  they  playing  now,  Phillip?"  Isabel  Harding 
draws  the  program  to  her  and  scans  the  musical  numbers 
listed  thereon. 

"Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  recognize  the  immortal 
unfinished  Schubert  symphony?"  her  companion  asks, 
with  good-natured  sarcasm. 

"You  know  I  cannot  tell  one  symphony  from  another," 
Mrs.  Harding  remarks,  pettishly.  "I  wish  you  would 
pay  less  attention  to  the  music  and  more  to  me." 

Phillip  Van  Zandt  smiles,  but  makes  no  reply  to  this  re 
proach.  And  while  he  listens  intently  to  the  divine 
music  which  the  orchestra  is  making,  his  companion  sips 
her  claret  punch  with  a  pretty  frown  upon  her  face. 

The  place  is  Madison  Square  Garden ;  the  occasion,  one 
of  a  series  of  classical  concerts  which  Mr.  Walter  Dam- 
rosch  and  his  orchestra  are  furnishing  New  York. 

The  two — Mrs.  Harding  and  Mr.  Van  Zandt — are  sit 
ting  by  the  wall  in  a  comparatively  uricrowded  section  of 
the  Garden  and  more  than  one  person  who  glances  at 
them  remarks  that  they  are  a  handsome  couple. 

Phillip  Van  Zandt  is  not  far  from  30  years  of  age. 
There  is  nothing  effeminate  about  his  singularly  hand 
some  face;  the  closely  trimmed  brown  beard  does  not 
conceal  the  firm,  almost  hard  lines  about  the  mouth. 
A  mass  of  dark-brown  curls  cluster  about  a  noble  fore 
head  that  fronts  a  well-shaped  head.  But  the  striking 
features  of  the  face  are  the  eyes.  Something  inscrutable 
lurks  in  their  dark-brown  depths,  now  dreamy  and  ten 
der,  and  again  cold  and  glittering. 

Who  he  is  and  what  he  is  are  points  upon  which  his 
nearest  acquaintances — he  has  no  intimate  friends — have 
never  succeeded  in  satisfying  themselves.  He  came 
somewhere  out  of  the  West  less  than  a  year  ago.  He 
occupies  luxurious  quarters  at  the  Wyoming  apartment 


PHILLIP  VAN  ZANDT.  109 

house,  spends  money  ireely,  and  seems  to  be  drifting 
through  existence  with  the  insouciance  of  a  man  who 
has  lived  his  life  and  who  looks  forward  to  nothing  this 
side  of  Charon's  ferry — or  perhaps  beyond. 

He  plays  at  cards  and  plunges  at  the  track  and  wins 
or  loses  with  the  inevitable  composure  which  character 
izes  his  every  action.  To  men  he  is  cold,  often  insolent; 
to  women  he  is  indifferent,  although  infinitely  courteous. 
Handsome,  distingue,  wealthy,  witty  in  a  dry,  cynical 
sort  of  way,  he  is  a  man  who  could  be  immensely  popular 
with  his  fellows  and  fascinating  to  the  other  sex.  That 
he  is  neither  one  nor  the  other  is  his  peculiarity. 

His  companion  of  this  evening,  Isabel  Harding,  is  a 
personage,  who  would  attract  instant  attention  in  a  crowd 
of  attractive  women.  She  is  magnificently  proportioned 
— a  splendid  animal,  as  Van  Zandt  remarked  when  first 
his  careless  gaze  rested  upon  her.  Her  hair  is  black  as 
midnight;  her  eyes,  large  and  lustrous,  can  either  flash 
with  the  fury  of  the  tiger  or  beam  with  the  softness  of 
the  dove.  Her  mouth  is  somewhat  large,  but  it  is  firm, 
and  between  full,  scarlet  lips  gleam  two  arcs  of  strong, 
milk-white  teeth. 

She  has  known  occasions  when  propriety  was  not 
finically  insisted  upon,  but  on  this  night  she  is  as  demure 
as  innocence  at  16.  For  she  knows  Van  Zandt  well 
enough  to  understand  that,  while  virtue  and  worth  may 
not  interest  him,  viciousness  and  unworthiness  decidedly 
do  not.  And  the  least  discerning  student  of  human 
nature  can  see  that  she  loves  him — loves  him  blindly, 
madly,  and — hopelessly. 

Van  Zandt  cares  nothing  for  her,  save  in  his  indifferent 
way,  and  she  knows  it.  But  she  does  not  despair.  She 
is  a  woman. 

Somewhere  in  Bohemia,  Van  Zandt  met  Isabel  Hard 
ing.  She  interested  him,  she  was  so  unlike  the  other 
women  at  the  little  French  restaurant  where  he  had 
dropped  in  to  get  lunch  and  a  bottle  of  really  good  wine. 
Some  small  service  by  him  rendered  sufficed  to  estab 
lish  between  the  two  a  camaraderie  that  continued  until 
the  present.  It  witnessed  no  alteration  of  sentiment  on 


110  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

the  part  of  Van  Zandt.  But  Isabel — she  began  by  ad 
miring  and  finished  by  worshiping. 

He  never  asked  who  or  what  she  was,  although  she 
was  obviously  a  woman  with  a  story  to  tell.  She  was  a 
widow,  she  said.  Widows  are  many  in  Bohemia. 

"Some  day  I  will  give  you  my  history,"  she  told  him. 
But  Van  Zandt  only  laughed  and  asked,  "Shall  we  go 
to  the  play  to-night?" 

"He  cares  no  more  for  me  than  for  the  glass  he  is  hold 
ing,"  Mrs.  Harding  now  thinks,  as  she  watches  his  face, 
turned  again  toward  the  orchestra.  "Don't  you  ever 
think  of  anything  except  music?"  she  demands,  a  little 
impatiently. 

"Oh,  yes;  of  a  great  many  other  things.  For  instance, 
I  was  this  minute  thinking  of  you." 

"Oh,  indeed?"  ironically.  "Something  vastly  compli 
mentary,  no  doubt." 

Van  Zandt  smiles  emphatically.  "I  was  thinking  that 
I  should  like  to  set  you  to  music,  if  I  possessed  the 
faculty,"  he  says,  as  he  glances  humorously  at  his  com 
panion's  pouting  face. 

"What  should  you  write,  a  waltz  refrain  or  a  dance- 
hall  ditty?"  asks  Mrs.  Harding. 

"Neither;  I  should  write  a  symphony,  a  wild  sort  of 
affair,"  he  smiles.  "It  would  begin  quietly  and  run  along 
for  bars  and  bars  in  a  theme  that  would  suggest  days 
when  the  heart  was  young  and  life  seemed  a  pathway  of 
roses.  This  would  give  place  to  scherzo  and  the  whole 
movement  would  be  light  and  playful  and  singing.  Then 
the  music  would  begin  to  grow  troublous,  anon  turbu 
lent,  and  would  finally  burst  into  uncontrollable  tumult. 
This  would  gradually  pass  away,  and  the  third  movement 
would  be  capriccio,  the  music  now  flashing  fire,  again 
singing  on  like  a  mountain  brook,  on  and  on,  and  on.'' 

"You  are  very  discerning,  Mr.  Van  Zandt,"  says  Isabel, 
biting  her  lip.  "What  name  should  you  bestow  on  this 
remarkable  symphony?" 

"I  should  call  it  'Isabel.' r 

"And  the  last  movement,  what  would  that  be?" 


PHILLIP  VAN  ZANDT.  Ill 

"Oh,  that  would  be  unfinished,  like  Schubert's,"  Van 
Zandt  replies,  with  a  provoking  smile. 

"Fortunately.  For  if  you  design  to  complete  it  you 
will  have  to  do  so  from  memory.  I  am  going  away," 
declares  Isabel,  with  a  flush  in  each  cheek. 

"Going  away?     Where?" 

"Ah,  mon  ami,  that  is  for  you  to  find  out.  Besides, 
what  do  you  care?  I  have  had  an  offer — diplomatic 
service,  I  believe  it  is  politely  called.  I  leave  in  two 
days." 

"By  Jove!  You  would  do  well  in  diplomatic  circles," 
exclaims  Van  Zandt,  glancing  at  her  in  frank  admira~ 
tion.  "You  said  nothing  of  this  before." 

"I  have  only  just  made  up  my  mind.  Your  symphony 
decided  me,"  Isabel  avers  with  some  bitterness. 

"The  Garden  is  filling  up,"  Van  Zandt  remarks 
abruptly.  About  all  the  tables  around  them  are  be 
ginning  to  be  taken.  "Hello!  There's  that  chap  again," 
he  adds,  as  two  men  seat  themselves  at  an  adjoining  table 
and  fall  to  chatting. 

"Didn't  know  I  was  a  musical  critic,  did  you,  Barker? 
Well,  you  see  our  regular  music  expert  is  off  duty  sick 
to-night,  so  they  put  me  on  the  job.  It's  a  short  one." 

"Your  duties,  friend  Ashley,  appear  to  be  beautifully 
diversified." 

"They  are  that.  Anything  from  a  murder  to  a  concert 
I  suppose  Raymond  is  about  the  same  as  when  we  left  it, 
about  a  year  ago?" 

"To  a  dot.  Same  crowd  on  the  hotel  veranda.  Same 
symposium  of  hay,  horse  and  village  gossip." 

"Just  the  same  it  is  a  great  country.  I'd  give  several 
good  iron  dollars  to  be  back  for  one  morning  in  that 
gorge  near  South  Ashfield,  on  the  old  wood  road  where 
I  ran  upon  Ernest  Stanley." 

"Push  over  a  bit.  Here's  another  party,"  says  Barker, 
as  a  jolly  quartet  approach. 

"Plenty  of  room,"  they  declare,  as  they  find  chairs  and 
seat  themselves  close  by.  The  man  nearest  to  the  de 
tective  and  the  newspaper  man  is  a  stout,  florid-faced 
party,  whose  clean-cut  visage  and  smooth  bearing  be- 


112  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

token  the  sporting  man.  His  companions  are  well- 
dressed  young  men  about  town. 

"Hold  on,  major,"  remarks  one  of  the  latter,  inter 
rupting  the  stout  party  in  the  act  of  giving  an  order  to 
the  waiter.  "I'll  buy  this  round,  gentlemen,  and  we  will 
make  it  wine.  I  played  in  luck  to-day." 

"So?     Cards  run  well,  eh?" 

"Never  saw  them  come  easier.  I  had  a  bit  of  luck, 
major,  which  does  not  materialize  often  enough  to  render 
poker  a  continuously  profitable  employment.  I  sat  be 
tween  two  men  who  raised  the  pot  four  times  before  the 
draw,  and  I  filled  up  a  straight  flush." 

"You  stood  the  raises  on  a  bob  flush?" 

"I  had  to.  It  was  open  at  both  ends.  Basket  of  wine, 
waiter,  and  fetch  it  in  a  hurry,"  adds  the  young  man, 
whom  his  friends  call  Chauncey,  and  he  gives  the  waiter 
a  tip  that  sends  him  a-flying. 

The  major  smiles  as  the  reminiscences  of  innumerable 
interesting  jack-pots  are  stirred  up  by  the  story  of  his 
young  friend's  good  luck. 

"Speaking  of  straight  flushes,"  he  observes,  "I  never 
saw  a  hand  fill  more  neatly  or  appropriately  than  during 
a  little  game  in  which  I  was  sitting  three  or  four  years 
ago." 

"Story  by  the  major,  gentlemen,"  cries  Chauncey,  rap 
ping  the  table  to  order  and  receiving  the  angry  glances 
of  a  number  of  people  about  him  who  are  trying  to  hear 
the  music.  "Here  comes  the  wine.  We  will  drink  a 
toast  to  all  straight  flushes,  high  or  low,  and  then  the 
major  shall  have  the  floor." 


CHAPTER  XX. 
A  SUPPOSITION  BECOMES  A  FACT. 

"You  remember  when  Phil  Clark  was  running  up  on 
Fifth  Avenue,"  begins  the  major,  after  the  wine  has  been 
brought  and  pronounced  only  half-iced. 


A   SUPPOSITION   BECOMES  A   FACT.  113 

"Rather,"  responds  Chauncey,  dryly.  "I  dropped  five 
hundred  there  one  night  and  it  wasn't  much  of  a  game 
at  that." 

"Well,  I  drifted  into  Phil's  one  night  three  years  ago, 
more  or  less,  and  found  the  place  as  quiet  as  a  country 
village.  There  was  no  big  game  going  on,  and  mighty 
few  small  ones.  In  one  of  the  rooms  I  found  Col 
Dunnett.  You  remember  Dunnett.  We  were  chatting 
and  commenting  on  the  dullness  of  the  evening,  when 
two  young  men  came  into  the  room  and,  after  a  glance 
at  us,  one  of  them  suggested  a  hand  at  poker. 

"I  knew  one  of  the  young  men  slightly.  His  name 
was  Stanley,  I  believe.  Quiet,  reserved  sort  of  a  chap. 
He  hadn't  been  in  New  York  long,  he  said.  'Made 
books  out  at  the  Sheepshead  races.  I  did  not  fancy  his 
friend,  who  had  been  drinking  some  and  was  inclined 
to  be  a  bit  noisy.  His  name — let  me  see — Fenton,  or 
Fallen;  no,  Felton,  that  was  what  Stanley  called  him. 

"We  began  the  game  and  it  broke  up  after  the  hand  I 
started  in  to  tell  you  about.  The  betting  simmered  down 
to  Felton  and  Stanley.  Felton  held  four  aces  and  bet  all 
the  cash  he  had.  'I  ought  to  raise  you/  said  Stanley; 
'still/  he  added,  'if  that  is  all  the  cash  you  have ' 

"  'You  needn't  worry  about  me/  sneered  Felton,  as 
he  took  a  check-book  from  his  pocket.  'I  said  that  was 
all  the  change  I  had  with  me,  but  my  check  is  good.'  He 
scratched  off  a  check  and  threw  it  on  the  table.  'You  can 
see  that,  or  call  my  previous  bet,  as  you  please.' 

"Stanley  was  as  calm  as  I  am  now.  He  leaned  over 
to  me,  and,  spreading  his  cards,  asked:  'Major,  will  you 
loan  me  a  thousand  a  moment  to  bet  this  hand?'  I 
glanced  at  it  and  had  a  trifle  of  difficulty  in  restraining 
my  surprise.  He  had  filled,  as  he  told  me  afterward,  the 
middle  of  a  straight  flush,  king  up! 

"  'Cert,  my  boy/  I  replied,  cheerfully,  to  his  request, 
and  I  passed  over  two  $500  bills.  Stanley  tossed  them 
on  the  table,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  Felton.  The 
latter,  with  a  smile  of  sublime  confidence,  spread 
out  four  aces.  'No  good/  was  Stanley's  calm  an 
nouncement.  He  exhibited  his  hand,  and  then  pocket- 


114  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

ing  the  stakes,  after  returning  me  my  thousand,  he  re 
marked:  'Thank  you,  gentlemen,  for  your  entertain 
ment.  I  don't  believe  I'll  play  any  more  to-night.'  And 
putting  on  his  coat  and  hat,  he  left  the  room. 

"Felton  sat  like  one  dazed  for  some  moments.  Then 
he  walked  to  the  bar  and  after  a  stiff  drink  hurried  off. 
I  never  saw  either  of  them  after  that  night." 

Ashley  and  Barker  have  been  silent  and  interested 
listeners  to  this  yarn  by  the  major.  As  the  latter  and  his 
friends  rise  Ashley  rises  also  and  taps  the  major  on  the 
shoulder.  "Pardon  the  intrusion,''  he  says,  with  an  en 
gaging  smile.  "I  have  been  vastly  interested  in  your 
poker  story,  sir,  for  the  reason  that  I  think  I  know  one 
of  the  players — Felton,  I  believe  you  called  him.  Do 
you  happen  to  recall  what  sort  of  a  looking  chap  he  was?'' 

"Hanged  if  I  remember,"  replies  the  major,  wondering 
at  the  other's  earnestness. 

"Was  he  a  rather  tall,  good-looking  young  fellow, 
with  light-brown  hair  and  eyes  and  a  tawny  mustache?" 
persists  Ashley. 

"Now  that  you  speak  of  the  mustache,  I  believe  that 
your  description  fits  him.  He  had  a  heavy,  yellowish 
mustache,  which  he  was  in  the  habit  of  biting,  as  though 
his  dinner  did  not  suit  him." 

"Thank  you,"  says  Ashley.  "Will  you  have  something 
more  to  drink,  gentlemen?" 

But  the  major  and  his  party  take  themselves  off  and 
Ashley  resumes  his  seat  with  a  satisfied  smile. 

"'So,  Barker,  we  hit  it  about  right  after  all,  eh?" 

"It  would  appear  so,"  returns  the  detective  compla 
cently.  "We  now  know  what  we  have  assumed  to  have 
been  the  case — that  Ernest  Stanley  suffered  imprisonment 
two  years  for  another's  crime,  and  that  the  real  crim 
inal,  the  man  who  forged  Cyrus  Felton's  name,  was  none 
other  than  his  son,  Ralph  Felton." 

As  Barker  pronounces  these  words  Ashley  hears  a 
smothered  exclamation  behind  him  and  turns  quickly. 
But  all  he  sees  is  a  gentleman  and  lady  gathering  their 
wraps  preparatory  to  taking  their  departure.  The  man's 
back  is  toward  Ashley,  but  the  latter  waits  until  the  party 


A  SUPPOSITION  BECOMES  A  FACT.  115 

faces  his  way  and  then  for  the  space  of  a  second  their 
eyes  meet. 

"There  is  only  one  more  selection,  and  it  does  not 
amount  to  much,"  Van  Zandt  tells  Mrs.  Harding,  and 
they  join  the  crowd  that  is  leaving  the  garden. 

"Do  you  know  those  two  men  who  sat  at  the  next 
table  to  us?  The  younger  looked  at  you  as  though  he 
knew  you  and  was  waiting  to  be  recognized." 

"Your  imagination,  cara  mia.  I  know  neither  of 
them,"  replies  Van  Zandt,  lightly.  Then,  as  he  hands  her 
into  a  carriage  at  the  corner  and  says  "Kensington"  to 
the  driver,  he  holds  Isabel's  hand  a  moment  at  parting 
and  inquires  gravely:  "So  you  are  really  going  away 
then?" 

"In  two  days,"  she  answers,  and  searches  his  face  for 
some  evidence  of  regret.  It  is  as  impassive  as  the  sphinx. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  shall  see  you  at  the  French  ball 
to-morrow  evening?" 

"You  may,  if  you  care  to  look  for  a  Russian  court 
lady,  attired  wholly  in  black." 

"Rest  assured  that  the  festivities  will  be  robed  in  sables 
until  I  find  her.  Good-night."  Van  Zandt  closes  the 
carriage  door,  watches  it  a  moment  as  it  rattles  up  the 
avenue  and  then  saunters  toward  Broadway. 

Ashley  and  Barker  have  remained  at  their  table  in  the 
garden  and  Jack  is  telling  the  detective  that  for  the 
second  time  within  twenty-four  hours  he  has  caught  the 
stare  of  the  man  with  the  brown  beard  and  piercing 
eyes.  "I  have  seen  that  face  somewhere,"  he  mutters, 
as  he  wrinkles  his  brow  in  a  desperate  effort  to  burst 
the  memory  cell  that  prisons  the  secret.  Suddenly  he 
smites  the  table  a  blow  that  sets  the  glasses  jingling  and 
invites  the  disapprobation  of  the  waiter.  "Oh,  memory! 
Memory,  thou  sleepy,  shiftless  warder  of  the  brain!"  he 
cries. 

"What  is  the  matter  now?"  asks  Barker. 

"Keep  calm,  old  chap,"  returns  Ashley,  gripping  the 
detective's  wrist.  "Keep  calm  while  I  confess  to  you  that 
we  have  let  slip  through  our  hands  the  key  to  the  Hatha 
way  mystery!" 


116  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"What!"  almost  shouts  the  detective,  starting  to  his 
feet.  "You  mean '' 

"I  mean  that  the  man  with  the  brown  beard  and  stiletto 
optics  who  just  left  us  is  my  friend  of  the  mountain 
gorge.  He  is  Ernest  Stanley!" 

''Well,  he  has  slipped  us  this  time,"  says  the  detective, 
disconsolately,  as  they  stand  outside  the  garden  and 
sweep  the  street  with  anxious  gaze. 

"Not  yet,"  Ashley  rejoins  cheerfully.  "See!  There  he 
is  beyond  that  third  light,  handing  his  magnificent  com 
panion  into  a  carriage." 

"Call  a  cab  and  follow  them,"  says  the  detective,  start 
ing  toward  the  line  of  conveyances  pulled  up  at  the  curb. 

"No  need  of  that,"  Ashley  interrupts.  "He  is  not  going 
to  ride."  At  that  moment  it  was  that  Van  Zandt  closed 
the  door  to  the  carriage  which  bore  Mrs.  Harding  to 
the  Kensington,  and  as  he  starts  toward  Broadway  the 
detective  and  the  newspaper  man  follow  at  a  cautious 
distance. 

Unconscious  of  the  espionage  Van  Zandt  starts  :ip- 
town  at  a  swinging  gait.  At  Thirty-second  Street  he 
branches  into  Sixth  Avenue,  and  the  two  men  behind 
him  wonder  that  he  does  not  ride.  At  the  park  he  turns 
down  Fifty-ninth  Street  and  finally  enters  the  Wyoming 
apartment  house,  leaving  Ashley  and  Barker  staring  up 
at  the  brownstone  elevation. 

The  former  waits  five  minutes  and  then  pulls  the  bell. 
"The  name  of  the  gentleman  who  has  just  gone  upstairs?" 
he  asks  the  colored  attendant  who  responds. 

"Mr.  Phillip  Van  Zandt,"  replies  the  sable  youth,  as  he 
slips  a  half-dollar  into  his  pocket. 

"Van  Zandt — is  that  his  name?"  queries  Ashley,  a 
trifle  disappointed,  although  he  might  have  expected  a 
strange  name.  Then  the  porter  tells  him  that  the  gentle 
man  with  the  brown  beard  has  been  a  resident  of  the 
Wyoming  for  several  months;  that  he  is  a  wealthy 
bachelor,  and  a  variety  of  other  equally  important  in 
formation. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  now?"  asks  Barker,  as  they 
walk  over  to  the  elevated  road. 


"DON    CAESAR    DE    BAZAN."  117 

"I  haven't  changed  my  opinion,"  is  Ashley's  response. 
"I  believe  that  Phillip  Van  Zandt  is  or  was  Ernest 
Stanley." 

"Well,  we  have  him  located,  at  any  rate,"  remarks  the 
detective.  "See  you  at  the  French  ball  to-morrow  night? 
I  am  on  the  lookout  for  a  couple  of  gentry  whom  I 
expect  to  be  there.  This  is  my  station.  Good-night." 


CHAPTER  XXL 

"DON    CAESAR   DE   BAZAN." 

The  big  French  ball,  that  annual  revel  at  the  metrop 
olis,  brings  together  a  motley  assemblage  of  the  devotees 
of  folly.  The  scene  at  the  entrance  to  Madison  Square 
Garden  to-night  is  the  same  scene  witnessed  at  this 
function  the  year  preceding,  and  the  year  before  that. 
A  mass  of  cabs  and  carriages  in  apparently  inextricable 
confusion  fill  the  street.  They  struggle  up  and  deposit 
their  fares  and  escorts  and  chaperons  fight  their  way 
through  the  mob  that  blocks  the  brilliantly  lighted  en 
trance,  and  not  always  without  an  unpleasant  encounter. 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  gay  interior  Louise  Hatha 
way  pauses  diffidently  and  thanks  fortune  that  a  mask 
hides  her  face  from  the  inquisitive  stares  around  her. 
But  led  by  Jack  Ashley,  Louise  and  Mr.  Felton  proceed 
to  a  box  and  once  within  its  shelter  the  young  girl  gives 
herself  up  to  an  unmixed  enjoyment  of  the  brilliant  spec 
tacle  before  her. 

The  scene  is  decorous,  even  sedate.  Few  acquaintances 
have  been  made,  and  when  the  strains  of  "Loin  du  Bai" 
arise  in  voluptuous  swell  only  a  small  number  of  dancers 
respond. 

"Why  this  is  as  proper  as  one  of  our  country  dances, 
and  far  less  noisy,"  Louise  whispers  to  Ashley,  but  that 
knowing  young  man  winks  mysteriously  behind  his  mask 
and  remarks:  "Wait!" 

"Oh,  but  I  shan't  wait/'  is  the  young  lady's  response. 


118  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"You  remember  what  I  emphatically  declared — only  an 
hour  or  two  and  then  we  return  to  the  hotel." 

"Then  you  need  fear  nothing  that  would  shock  you 
in  the  least  degree,"  Ashley  assures  her.  "The  rioting 
does  not  begin  until  after  midnight,  and  does  not  amount 
to  much  then.  But  see.  The  floor  is  filling  up,  the 
reserve  is  wearing  off,  and  it  would  need  only  the 
eruption  of  some  reckless  spirit  to  bring  on  a  pande 
monium." 

It  is  apparent  that  only  a  desire  to  humor  the  wishes 
of  Miss  Hathaway  has  led  Cyrus  Felton  to  the  garden. 
And  yet  it  is  all  so  novel,  all  so  bright  and  full  of  color, 
that  he  becomes  interested  in  spite  of  himself,  and  when 
Ashley  proposes  a  tour  of  the  floor  with  a  peep  at  the 
wine-room,  Mr.  Felton  glances  irresolutely  at  Louise. 
The  young  lady  nods  an  assent. 

"Do  not  be  gone  long,"  she  enjoins,  "although  I  could 
listen  to  the  music  and  watch  the  picture  half  the  night." 

When  they  are  gone  she  leans  back  in  her  chair,  partly 
draws  the  box  draperies,  and  watches  dreamily  the  ever- 
changing  panorama  on  the  vast  floor.  Suddenly  there  is 
borne  to  her  ears  a  melody  strangely  sweet,  yet  filled  with 
a  subtle  melancholy.  Louise  catches  her  breath  and 
listens.  It  is  the  andante  of  the  Beethoven  Sonata  Pa- 
thetique  she  played  so  often  in  her  old  Raymond  home. 
It  has  always  been  her  favorite,  and  she  is  really  an  artist 
in  soul  and  execution.  Some  one  is  whistling  softly  the 
divine  first  theme,  and  with  a  tenderness  she  has  often 
felt  yet  could  not  satisfactorily  express  through  the 
medium  of  an  unsympathetic  pianoforte. 

She  leans  over  the  box  and  her  eyes  rest  upon  the 
figure  of  a  man  attired  in  the  costume  of  Don  Caesar  de 
Bazan.  He  is  leaning  carelessly  against  the  pillar  of  the 
box  in  which  she  is  sitting,  not  a  dozen  feet  from  her. 
So  closely  does  his  costume  fit  him  and  so  bravely  does 
he  bear  it  that  he  looks  a  veritable  Don  Caesar  who  has 
stepped  for  an  hour  from  a  bygone  century.  A  brown 
beard  covers  the  lower  part  of  his  face;  all  above  is 
hidden  by  a  black  silk  mask. 

While  Louise  is  taking  note  of  this  interesting  person- 


"DON    CAESAR    DE    BAZAN."  119 

ality  she  hears  the  door  open  behind  her,  and  turns 
expecting  to  greet  Mr.  Felton  or  Ashley.  Instead  a 
stranger  steps  rather  shakily  into  the  box  and  closes  the 
door  with  an  affable  "Good-evening,  mademoiselle." 
Louise  makes  no  reply,  and  her  unwelcome  visitor  drops 
into  a  seat  with  easy  familiarity. 

"I  have  been  more  enthusiastically  received  to-night, 
but  I  will  let  that  pass,"  he  remarks,  with  cheerful  impu 
dence. 

"I  do  not  know  you,  sir,"  says  Louise  frigidly,  as  she 
rises  and  casts  a  wildly  anxious  look  over  the  ball-room. 

"Oh,  well,  I  am  not  so  hard  to  get  acquainted  with/' 
offers  the  insolent  mask.  "Will  you  drink  a  bottle  of 
wine  with  me?'' 

"Leave  me  at  once!"  commands  Louise,  pointing  to 
the  door  with  trembling  finger. 

"By  George!  That's  an  attitude  worthy  of  Lady  Mac 
beth,"  remarks  his  insolence,  in  frank  admiration.  "I 
will  go,"  he  adds,  in  mock  humility,  "but  I  must  at  least 
have  a  kiss  to  solace  me  for  the  loss  of  your  society." 

"You  would  not  dare !"  gasps  Louise,  retreating  to  the 
box  rail. 

"Dare?"  laughs  his  insolence;  "I  would  dare  anything 
for  such  a  prize/'  and  he  approaches  her  unsteadily. 

Louise's  frightened  gaze  is  turned  toward  the  ball 
room  and  again  rests  upon  Don  Caesar  de  Bazan,  who, 
attracted  by  the  colloquy,  has  stepped  a  pace  out  upon 
the  floor  and  is  an  interested  spectator  of  the  encounter. 

"Save  me!"  she  whispers,  and  sinks  upon  one  knee. 

But  the  entreaty  is  superfluous.  Already  Don 
Caesar's  hands  are  on  the  rail  and  with  a  vault  he  is  in 
the  box.  His  arm  shoots  out  and  his  insolence  goes 
down  with  a  crash.  He  struggles  to  his  feet  with  an  oath 
and  makes  for  Don  Caesar;  but  the  latter's  threatening 
attitude,  clenched  fist  and  eyes  that  flash  fire  through 
the  black  mask,  cause  him  to  stop,  and  muttering,  "You 
will  hear  from  me  again,"  he  leaves  the  box. 

Don  Caesar  lifts  his  cap  and  is  about  to  follow,  when 
Louise  interrupts  him.  "Do  not  go,"  she  says  gratefully, 


120  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"until  I  have  thanked  you  a  thousand  times  for  the 
service  you  have  rendered  me." 

Don  Caesar  bows.  "As  for  the  service,"  he  remarks 
lightly,  "it  was  nothing.  The  fellow  has  been  drinking, 
and  seeing  you  alone " 

"My  friends  have  left  me  only  for  a  few  moments," 
Louise  hastens  to  explain,  as  she  glances  over  the  floor 
and  bites  her  lips  in  vexation. 

"Then  I  may  remain  until  they  return?"  Don  Caesar 
observes  inquiringly,  dropping  into  a  chair.  "Some  other 
graceless  scamp  may  blunder  in  here." 

Louise's  eyes  express  a  timid  assent  to  the  proposition. 

"This  is  the  first  of  these  balls  that  you  have  attended?1' 
asks  Don  Caesar,  noting  that  she  is  ill  at  ease. 

"Yes;  and  it  will  be  the  last.  I  had  read  much  of  them, 
how  brilliant  they  were,  and  all  that,  and  I  naturally 
acquiesced  when  I  was  tempted  with  an  invitation.  For 
I  was  told  that  if  one  went  masked  there  was  no  harm 
in  looking  on  for  an  hour." 

"Nor  is  there.  The  wickedness  will  not  begin  for 
some  time,  and  it  is  at  best,  or  worst,  a  cheap,  tawdry 
wickedness,  wholly  unattractive  to  saint  or  sinner.  It  is 
all  inexpressibly  stupid.  A  lot  of  tinsel-decked  people 
rushing  hither  and  thither  in  the  dance,  with  little  regard 
for  the  rhythm  of  the  music  and  less  for  the  etiquette  of 
the  ball-room,  and  a  line  of  weary  clubmen,  bankers, 
men-about-town,  butchers  and  bakers  and  candlestick- 
makers  looking  on." 

"Yet  you  attend,  though  your  remark  indicates  famil 
iarity  with  the  function." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  attend.  For  in  spite  of  it  all  there  are 
flowers  and  music,  light  and  color  and  a  certain  brilliancy 
that  enables  one  to  forget  for  the  nonce  the  even  deadlier 
stupidity  of  the  outside  world." 

"Don  Caesar  de  Bazan  of  old  was  not  a  cynic,"  re 
marks  Louise,  smilingly. 

"Had  he  been  he  would  not  have  maintained  our  ever 
green  regard.  When  we  sit  down  to  a  book  or  a  play 
we  like  to  leave  our  cynicism  behind  us ;  to  live  with  men 
who  have  not  a  care  beyond  the  morrow;  men  who 


"DON    CAESAR    DE    BAZAN."  121 

mount  horse  and  ride  away  from  their  troubles;  whose 
swords  leap  from  their  sheaths  at  the  breath  of  an  insult; 
good,  hearty,  whole-souled  fellows  whose  fortunes  one 
delights  to  follow,  but  whom,  alas,  we  seldom  meet  in 
the  flesh." 

"Perhaps  it  is  as  well.  You  might  grow  awfully  tired 
of  them." 

"Perhaps.  I  sometimes  think  that,  outside  of  the  last 
ing  friendships  with  the  people  in  books  and  plays,  the 
only  satisfactory  acquaintances  are  the  chance  ones." 

"True,"  murmurs  Louise,  dreamily.  She  wonders 
whether  the  face  behind  the  black  mask  matches  the 
melody  of  the  voice.  A  similar  thought  flits  through 
Don  Caesar's  mind,  as  his  eyes  take  in  the  graceful  figure 
of  the  girl,  clad  all  in  black,  a  single  ornament  fastened 
at  the  long  white  throat. 

"I,  too,  have  few  friends,"  says  Louise.  "But  there 
is  one  friend  who  never  fails  me,  through  joy  or  sadness 
— my  music." 

"Ah,  there  is  naught  like  it  to  drive  away  that  enemy 
to  life,  dull  care,"  put  in  the  Don.  "It  is  my  one  passion. 
And  I  have  cultivated  it  only  lately.  But  now  I  give 
myself  up  to  it  entirely,  attending  every  concert  of  any 
repute,  and  bewailing  fate  a  thousand  times  that  I  cannot 
play,  or  sing,  or  write." 

"I  think  I  can  guess  your  favorite  melody — one  of 
them,  at  least." 

"Can  you,  indeed?''  asked  Don  Caesar,  in  interested 
surprise. 

"The  Sonata  Pathetique." 

"Ah,  is  it  not  beautiful?  You  have  guessed  correctly, 
but  how?" 

"You  were  whistling  it  softly  as  you  stood  near  yonder 
pillar,  a  moment  before  the  occasion  for  your  presence 
here  arose." 

"Very  probably.  It  is  continually  running  through 
my  head.  Do  you  know,  the  melody  has  two  meanings 
to  me.  When  I  am  out  of  patience  with  the  world  and 
myself  it  seems  tinged  with  an  inexpressible  melancholy. 
And  when  I  am  in  good  spirits  the  refrain  becomes  sing- 


122  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

ing,  joyous,  triumphant.    Has  it  ever  seemed  so  to  you?'' 

"I  do  not  know.  It  has  always  seemed  beautiful.  It  is 
my  favorite." 

"And  mine.  You  are  not  a  New  Yorker,"  ventures 
Don  Caesar. 

"So?  It  is  now  my  turn,  Don  Caesar,  to  marvel  at 
your  guessing  powers." 

Don  Caesar  laughs  softly.  "It  does  not  demand  an 
extraordinary  acute  discernment.  Your  accent  and  man 
ner  betoken  the  New  Englander." 

"Are  we  then  so  provincial  that  we  so  easily  betray  our 
selves?  But  you  are  right.  I  am  a  Vermonter." 

"I  thought  so.  Odd,  is  it  not,  how  dominos  conduce 
to  confidences,  even  among  strangers?" 

"Yes.    And  yet  I  think  they  would  prove  unsatisfactory 
for   conversational   purposes   among   people    who — 
Louise  pauses. 

''People  who  have  been  formally  introduced,  eh?"  fin- 
ishes  Don  Caesar.  "Are  you  in  the  city  for  any  length 
of  time?" 

"Only  until  Saturday.    We  sail  for  Cuba  then." 

"Cuba?  That  is  a  long  way  off,"  muses  Don  Caesar. 
"I  came  very  near  forgetting  that  I  had  not  been  formally 
introduced  and  expressing  the  regret  that  I  should  not 
see  you  again  before  you  sail." 

"You  said  a  moment  ago  that  the  only  satisfactory 
acquaintances  were  the  transitory  ones,"  Louise  reminds 
him. 

"True.  But  that  rule  has  its  exceptions,  like  all 
others." 

"Consistency  is  no  more  a  man's  attribute  than  a 
woman's,"  moralizes  Miss  Hathaway.  "My  friends  ap 
proach,  Don  Caesar/'  she  adds,  as  she  catches  a  glimpse 
of  Mr.  Felton  and  Ashley  threading  their  way  over  the 
crowded  floor. 

"That  is  the  signal  for  my  departure,  then,"  says  Don 
Caesar.  "Before  I  go  I  would  crave  one  small  boon." 

"I  owe  you  some  return  for  your  timely  assistance. 
Speak,  Don  Caesar." 


A  FAIRY  TALE  THAT  CAME  TRUE.  123 

"Just  a  glimpse  of  the  face  that  your  mask  so  jealously 
veils." 

"Oh!"  cries  Louise,  somewhat  disturbed. 

"Remember,"  urges  Don  Caesar,  "we  shall  never  meet 
again But  'twould  be  ungenerous  to  press  my  re 
quest,"  he  adds,  rising.  "I  must  say  farewell,  then,  with 
only  the  memory  of  a  sweet  voice  to  recall  one  of  the  few 
pleasant  quarter-hours  that  I  have  known." 

Some  impulse,  she  can  hardly  explain  what,  seizes 
Louise.  With  trembling  fingers  she  detaches  her  mask 
and  uncovers  a  face  suffused  with  blushes. 

"I  thought  so!"  murmurs  Don  Caesar,  as  his  eyes  take 
in  the  glory  of  that  face,  which  is  almost  immediately 
veiled  again. 

"Thank  you,"  he  says,  simply,  and  presses  to  his  lips 
for  an  instant  the  hand  she  timidly  gives  him  in  parting. 

He  is  gone,  and  Louise  sinks  back  into  her  chair  with 
beating  heart,  wondering  whether  she  has  been  foolish, 
or  unmaidenly,  or  indiscreet.  She  forgets  to  administer 
to  Ashlev  the  scolding  he  deserves  for  his  long  absence 
and  receives  abstractedly  his  explanation  of  a  row  in  the 
wine-room  and  their  detention  by  the  crowd.  Her  gaze 
wanders  about  the  ball-room  in  search  of  the  graceful 
figure  of  Don  Caesar  de  Bazan,  but  he  has  vanished. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

A  FAIRY  TALE  THAT   CAME  TRUE. 

Toward  10  o'clock  Louise  Hathaway  decides  that  she 
has  witnessed  enough  of  the  brilliant  panorama  to  war 
rant  her  in  returning  to  the  hotel,  and  as  Cyrus  Felton  is 
plainly  bored  by  a  scene  not  attuned  to  his  temperament, 
Ashley  hunts  up  their  wraps,  hails  a  carriage  and  they 
are  driven  to  the  St.  James. 

"You  will  make  a  night  of  it,  I  suppose,"  Miss  Hatha 
way  remarks,  as  Ashley  prepares  to  say  good-night 


124  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"No;  I  shall  remain  only  long  enough  to  finish  my 
story  for  the  paper.  I  wrote  the  introduction  this  after 
noon.  One  year's  ball  is  much  the  same  as  another's. 
Have  you  any  plans  for  the  morrow?" 

"None,  except  mild  sightseeing.  Will  you  not  lunch 
with  us?" 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  murmurs  Ashley.  To  be  near 
Miss  Hathaway  is  pleasure  unalloyed;  incidentally  he  de 
sires  an  opportunity  to  quietly  study  Cyrus  Felton.  "At 
i  o'clock,  say?"  he  asks. 

"At  i  o'clock.  We  must  thank  you  again,  Mr.  Ashley, 
for  your  escort  this  evening." 

"Don't  mention  it — again,"  smiles  Ashley.  "I  am  sorry 
I  cannot  ask  you  to  assist  in  my  work  to-morrow.  It 
would  be  fully  as  interesting  and  more  to  your  taste, 
likely,  than  the  French  ball." 

"Then  it  cannot  be  a  political  meeting." 

"Hardly.  It  is  the  trial  trip  of  the  new  United  States 
cruiser  America,  probably  the  fastest  vessel  of  any  size 
afloat  in  the  world  to-day." 

"That  will  be  delightful.  You  must  tell  me  all  about  it 
when  you  return.  Your  description  will  be  much  more 
interesting,  I  am  sure,  than  the  newspaper  accounts." 

"Fully  as  interesting  as  the  Hemisphere's  story,  per 
haps.  Good-night,  Miss  Hathaway.  Oh,  by  the  way, 
Mr.  Felton,"  as  Louise  trips  upstairs,  "did  you  know  that 
Roger  Hatha way's  revolver  has  been  found?" 

Ashley  asks  the  question  in  the  most  casual  of  tones, 
but  his  keen  eyes  are  riveted  on  the  elder  man's  face. 
The  result  is  not  wholly  what  the  questioner  expected. 
Mr.  Felton  simply  stares  at  Ashley  and  repeats:  "Hath- 
away's  revolver  found?  Where?  When?" 

"It  was  fished  out  of  Wild  River  about  opposite  the 
cemetery  a  day  or  two  ago.  But  perhaps  it  was  after  you 
had  started  for  New  York.  Odd,  is  it  not,  that  the 
weapon  with  which  the  crime  was  perhaps  committed 
should  be  brought  to  light  within  a  stone's  throw  of  the 
grave  of  the  murdered  man?  But  pardon  me.  Perhaps, 
I  have  awakened  painful  reflections;  so  I  will  say  no  more. 
Good  night." 


A  FAIRY  TALE  THAT  CAME  TRUE.  125 

Cyrus  Felton  stands  like  a  stone  upon  the  threshold 
to  the  reading-room  for  fully  a  minute  after  Ashley  has 
left  the  hotel.  Then  he  turns  and  goes  slowly  upstairs  to 
his  room. 

WhenAshley  reaches  the  Garden  he  hunts  up  Barker 
and  rescues  that  amiable  gentleman  from  the  importuni 
ties  of  a  brace  of  masks  who  are  gayly  informing  him  that 
they  are  "just  beginning  to  like  him."  Ashley  drags  him 
away  and  asks:  "Have  you  located  the  gentry  for  whom 
you  were  looking  to-night?" 

"No,  but  I  have  chanced  upon  one  or  two  choice  in 
cidents  in  society  life  which  the  chief  may  find  useful 
some  day." 

"Good.  Let  me  in  early  when  they  materialize.  Now, 
old  chap,  if  you  will  kill  time  here  for  half  an  hour  or  so, 
until  I  finish  my  story,  I'll  join  you." 

Ashley  hunts  up  an  out-of-the-way  corner  and  the 
work  is  soon  finished  and  dispatched  by  a  district  mes 
senger  boy.  Then  the  newspaper  man  returns  to  the 
wine-room,  but  Barker  has  strayed. 

While  Jack  is  lounging  about  the  edges  of  the  ball 
room,  his  cheek  is  brushed  by  a  Jack  rose  tossed  from  a 
near-by  box.  He  looks  around  and  sees  leaning  over  the 
box  rail  a  woman  attired  in  the  costume  of  a  lady  of  the 
Russian  court.  The  eyes  behind  the  mask  twinkle  in 
vitingly,  and  as  she  is  alone  Ashley  fastens  the  rose  in 
his  coat,  tosses  a  kiss  to  the  donor  and  proceeds  to  look 
for  the  door  leading  to  that  particular  box. 

"May  I  enter,  lady  fair?"  he  asks,  as  he  stands  upon  the 
threshold. 

"On  one  condition,"  the  lady  in  black  informs  him. 

"Name  it,"  he  smiles. 

"That  you  do  not  ask  me  to  drink  a  bottle  of  wine 
with  you;  that  you  talk  of  something  interesting;  and 
that  you  do  not  make  love  to  me." 

"And  you  call  that  one  condition?  But  I  accept," 
says  Ashley,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  The  next  in 
stant  he  suppresses  an  exclamation  and  a  tendency 
toward  mild  protestation.  For  in  closing  the  door  he  has 
caught  one  finger  on  a  nail  which  some  careless  car- 


126  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

penter  omitted  to  drive  home,  and  the  digit  gets  a  painful 
tear. 

The  lady  in  black  extends  sympathy  and  lends  her  own 
dainty  lace  handkerchief  to  bind  up  his  wound.  As  he 
bends  to  tie  the  knot  with  his  teeth  the  perfume  on  the 
lace  almost  startles  him. 

"Your  first  condition,  madam,  was  easily  accepted/'  he 
smiles,  as  he  throws  himself  into  a  chair  and  toys  with 
the  handkerchief  about  his  finger.  "The  second  is  more 
difficult  to  live  up  to,  and  the  third  is  cruel."  -He  is 
carelessly  unwrapping  the  handkerchief  as  though  to  re- 
bind  it,  and  is  looking  for  some  initial. 

"Oh,  tell  me  a  story — something  I  haven't  heard," 
yawns  the  lady  in  black.  "At  the  first  sign  of  stupidity  I 
shall  send  you  away." 

"A  story?"  drawls  Ashley.  Ah,  he  has  found  what  he 
sought.  In  one  corner  of  the  handkerchief  is  the  letter 
"I,"  curiously  embroidered  in  silk. 

"Very  well,"  he  says,  in  rare  good  humor,  "I  promise 
you  a  story  that,  while  it  may  not  be  entirely  new  to  you, 
will  hold  your  interest  to  the  end.  But  first,  madam,  I 
must  beg  of  you  to  lay  aside  your  domino,  that  I  may 
know  whether  my  tale  is  interesting  you  or  I  am  courting 
the  unhappy  fate  which  you  threatened  should  be  meted 
out  to  stupidity." 

The  lady  in  black  laughs  musically  and,  partially  draw 
ing  the  box  draperies,  she  tosses  off  her  mask,  and,  to 
Ashley's  intense  amaze,  reveals  the  face  of  the  handsome 
woman  whom  he  remembers  to  have  seen  with  Phillip 
Van  Zandt  the  preceding  night  at  the  Damrosch  con 
cert. 

But  Jack  Ashley  is  not  a  young  man  who  permits  his 
face  or  voice  to  betray  his  emotions.  So  he  knots  the 
lace  once  more  about  his  injured  digit,  settles  himself 
comfortably  in  his  chair  and  begins: 

"Once  upon  a  time " 

"Is  this  a  fairy  tale?"  interrupts  his  handsome  auditor. 

"A  fairy  tale?  Perhaps.  But  a  fairy  tale  that  came 
true.  Once  upon  a  time  there  lived  in  a  small  New 
England  community  a  youth  to  whom  the  simple  amuse- 


A  FAIRY  TALE  THAT  CAME  TRUE.  127 

merits  and  rustic  pleasures  of  his  native  town  became  as 
tedious  as  a  twice-told  tale.  As  his  father  was  engaged 
in  a  business  whose  interests  extended  over  the  country, 
the  youth  was  given  a  roving  commission,  and  soon  after 
he  was  tasting  the  sweets  of  an  existence  in  the  great 
city.  Metropolitan  life  suited  him  to  a  T.  His  only  re 
gret  was  that  his  means  were  not  sufficient  to  keep  pace 
with  his  luxurious  tastes. 

"In  the  course  of  time  he  met  and  loved  a  very  pretty 
girl.  She  had  hair  of  midnight,  eyes  like  black  diamonds, 
a  superb  figure  and  a  thousand  charms.  Whether  her 
heart  was  as  true  as  her  face  was  fair,  I  know  not.  The 
torrent  which  bore  these  two  hearts  was  more  or  less 
turbulent.  In  the  trouble  which  came  between  them  I 
am  charitable  enough  to  believe  that  the  man  was  to 
blame.  The  youth  found  that  living  beyond  his  means 
has  an  inevitable  and  unpleasant  result,  and  it  was  not 
long  ere  his  father,  after  palliating  innumerable  offenses, 
summoned  him  home.  He  was  given  a  position  in  a 
bank  in  the  town  which  he  still  despised,  and  he  soon 
forgot  his  city  love,  being  assisted  in  this  forgetfulness 
by  a  passion  which  he  had  conceived  for  the  beautiful 
daughter  of  the  cashier  of  the  bank  in  which  he  was 
employed. 

"The  neglected  one  wrote  many  letters,  but  could  ob 
tain  no  satisfaction  of  her  faithless  swain.  Finally  she 
decided  to  visit  him  in  his  New  England  home;  so  on  a 
memorable  afternoon  she  arrived  in  his  town,  went  to  a 
hotel  and  sent  word  to  the  youth  that  she  desired  to  see 
him  at  once.'' 

"Well?"  demands  the  lady  in  black,  as  Ashley  pauses. 
The  flash  in  her  eyes  and  the  nervous  fingers  tell  him 
that,  while  his  story  may  not  be  enjoyed,  it  is  being 
listened  to  with  intense  interest. 

"The  youth  obeyed  the  summons,"  he  resumes,  "and 
there  was  a  scene.  Money  was  demanded,  and  money  he 
had  none.  But  perhaps  it  was  to  be  had  somewhere. 
That  night  a  murder  was  committed  in  the  town.  It  was 
an  extremely  mysterious  affair,  and  the  excitement  which 
it  caused  was  intensified  a  day  or  two  later,  when  the 


128  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

young  man  of  our  story  suddenly  disappeared  and  was 
never  after  heard  from.  The  detective  employed  on  the 
case  assumed  that  if  he  could  find  the  mysterious  woman 
who  registered  at  the  hotel  the  day  of  the  tragedy  some 
light  might  be  thrown  upon  the  affair  and  the  where 
abouts  of  the  absent  young  man  ascertained." 

"Have  you  any  object  in  telling  me  this  story?"  asks 
the  lady  in  black,  in  a  voice  which  she  strives  to  render 
calm  and  unconcerned. 

"Only  your  entertainment." 

"Then  you  have  not  succeeded." 

"I  have  succeeded  in  one  thing,"  returns  Ashley,  in 
quiet  triumph.  "I  have  found  the  woman." 

"Indeed?  That  is  more  interesting.  But  perhaps  you 
are  mistaken." 

"Impossible.  The  beautiful  unknown  left  in  the  hotel 
room  a  lace  handkerchief  scented  with  a  most  peculiar 
perfume/'  Ashley  is  slowly  unwrapping  the  lace  creation 
about  his  finger,  and  he  sniffs  it  as  he  speaks.  "A  per 
fume  which  the  finder  of  the  handkerchief  had  never 
known  before,"  he  goes  on,  as  he  spreads  the  lace  upon 
his  knee.  "Besides  the  perfume,  which  distinguished  this 
from  thousands  of  other  handkerchiefs,  there  was  in  one 
corner  the  letter  'I,'  curiously  embroidered  in  silk." 

As  if  he  were  alone  and  talking  to  himself,  Ashley 
takes  from  a  wallet  in  his  pocket  the  handkerchief  which 
for  months  he  had  carefully  treasured,  and  spreading  it 
upon  his  knee  compares  it  with  the  one  which  lately 
wrapped  his  finger.  They  are  identical.  Then  he  looks 
up  and  catches  the  half-scornful,  half-startled  gaze  of  the 
lady  in  black. 

"Is  that  all?"  she  inquires. 

"No.    But  I  expect  you  to  furnish  the  last  chapter." 

The  lady  in  black  again  adjusts  her  mask.  "Not  to 
night,"  she  says.  "Come  to  my  hotel  to-morrow  and  I 
will  endeavor  to  gratify  your  curiosity." 

"Whom  shall  I  inquire  for?" 

"I  believe  you  have  my  name." 

"Ah,  yes.    And  the  hotel,  madam?" 

"The  Kensington." 


A  REPRISAL  OF  TREACHERY.  129 

"And  the  hour?" 

"Ten  in  the  morning." 

"Thank  you.    I  will  be  prompt." 

Ashley  leaves  the  box  humming  a  lively  air  and  pro 
ceeds  to  look  up  his  friend  Barker. 

"Busy,  old  man?"  he  asks,  when  he  has  finally  located 
the  detective. 

"Not  especially?    Why?" 

"Do  you  see  that  woman  in  black  in  yonder  box,  talk 
ing  with  a  swarthy-looking  gentleman?" 

"I  do." 

"That  is  'Isabel  Winthrop.' " 

"The  devil!" 

"N6 ;  but  perhaps  one  of  his  satanic  highness'  amiable 
representatives.  I  have  an  interview  arranged  with  her 
for  to-morrow  at  10;  place  the  Kensington.  I  want  you 
to  follow  her  when  she  leaves  the  Garden  and  keep  an 
eye  on  her  until  10  o'clock  to-morrow  morning.  If  I  do 
not  hear  from  you  before  that  hour  I  shall  consider  that 
she  has  made  the  engagement  in  good  faith.  I  have  a  big 
day's  work  to-morrow,  and  I  believe  I  will  go  home  and 
turn  in." 

"All  right,  Jack,  my  boy.  I  will  keep  her  ladyship  in 
view  if  she  leads  me  to  China.  So  long." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A  REPRISAL  OP  TREACHERY. 

"Don't  be  absurd,  Don  Manada." 

"Absurd?  Dios!  I  was  never  more  thoroughly  in 
earnest  in  my  life." 

/'Nevertheless,  you'are  absurd/'  Isabel  Harding  smiles 
tantalizingly  over  her  champagne  glass  at  the  flushed 
face  and  glistening  eyes  of  her  companion. 

This  conversation  occurs  shortly  after  midnight  at  an 


130  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

out-of-the-way  table  in  the  arcade  at  the  east  end  of  the 
Garden. 

For  all  it  began  so  decorously,  this  year's  ball  is  a  par 
ticularly  riotous  affair  and  already  the  fantastic  orgie  is 
well  under  way.  Masks  have  been  scattered  to  the  pat 
chouli-laden  winds.  Yet  there  are  a  few  discreet  folks 
who,  though  they  mingle  with  the  mad  crowd,  have  re 
tained  their  masks.  As  Don  Manada  and  his  companion 
are  comparatively  removed  from  observation,  they  have 
laid  aside  their  dominos  for  the  moment  and  are  con 
versing  in  earnest  whispers. 

Isabel  Harding  is  so  radiantly,  magnificently,  danger 
ously  beautiful  that  it  is  a  terrific  strain  for  the  gentle 
man  at  her  side  to  maintain  the  least  semblance  of  com 
posure. 

"In  what  does  my  absurdity  consist?"  he  demands  in  a 
passionate  whisper. 

"Can  you  ask?  You  tell  me  that  you  love  me — which 
I  already  know — and  urge  a  suit  which  I  have  twice 
before  told  you  is  hopeless.  You  profess  to  believe  that  I 
could  learn  in  time  to  honestly  return  your  undoubtedly 
sincere  affection.  It  is  impossible.  I  will  be  honest  with 
you.  I  am  not  one  to  whom  love  comes  slowly.  I  love 
only  one  man,  and  he — don't  look  so  murderous,  Don 
Manada — he  cares  nothing  for  me,"  she  finishes,  bitterly. 

"Come,  a  truce  to  lovemaking!''  rallies  Isabel.  "Don't 
look  so  fiercely  downcast,  Don  Manada.  Fill  up  the 
glasses  and  we  will  drink  a  melancholy  toast  to  unre 
quited  love.  We  are  alike  unsuccessful  lovers.  But  we 
will  continue  to  be  good  friends." 

"Impossible,"  replies  Don  Manada,  as  he  gloomily 
pours  out  the  wine.  "I  go  to  Cuba  to-morrow." 

"Indeed?  I  trust  that  I  am  not  responsible  for  the 
loss  of  your  society  to  your  New  York  friends." 

"No,  senora.  I  go  because  duty  calls  me,  but  I  had 
expected  to  wear  a  lighter  heart -than  that  which  will 
accompany  me." 

Don  Manada  is  too  much  occupied  with  his  despair  to 
note  the  peculiar  look  which  Isabel  darts  at  him  from 
between  her  half-dropped  eyelids. 


A  REPRISAL  OF  TREACHERY.  131 

"Cuba?''  she  repeats,  dreamily.  "Ah,  I  should  like  to 
visit  that  country  some  day." 

Don  Manada  looks  up  with  swift  hope.  "You  would, 
senora?  Then  you  shall!"  he  cries.  "We  will  leave  to 
morrow  on  my  vessel.  I  will  be  your  slave.  You  have 
but  to  speak  and  every  wish  will  be  gratified.  You  will 
do  me  this  favor,"  he  urges,  and  then,  with  the  fervor  and 
descriptive  powers  of  a  Claude  Melnotte,  he  proceeds  to 
paint  a  fascinating  picture  with  a  tropical  background, 
his  enthusiasm  fired  by  ravishing  glances  from  his  com 
panion. 

''Quite  an  escapade  you  have  outlined/'  smiled  Isabel. 
"But  it  is  too  prosy.  If  the  voyage  promised  a  dash  of 
adventure,  if  it  were  spiced  with  an  element  of  danger, 

I "  she  pauses  and  lifts  the  wineglass  slowly  to  her 

lips. 

"Danger?"  echoes  Don  Manada,  with  a  curious  smile. 
"Dios!  The  voyage  might  not  be  without  all  the  adven 
ture  your  heart  could  desire,  senora."  He  takes  from 
his  pocket  a  newspaper  clipping  and  hands  it  to  Isabel, 
after  a  glance  about  him  to  make  certain  that  they  are 
unobserved.  The  clipping  is  from  the  current  edition  of 
the  Hemisphere.  It  is  a  dispatch  from  Key  West,  and  a 
portion  of  it  reads  as  follows: 

"This  city  has  been  in  a  fever  of  excitement  all  day 
over  the  report  that  an  important  filibustering  expedi 
tion  is  to  leave  New  York  this  week  to  aid  the  Cuban 
insurgents.  The  report  is  backed  by  excellent  authority, 
and  there  is  no  doubt  that  an  effort  will  be  made  to  send 
valuable  assistance  to  the  patriots  of  the  Antilles  some 
time  during  the  week.  In  some  way  the  United  States 
authorities  and  the  Spanish  government  have  got  wind 
of  the  proposed  expedition  and  they  are  striving  to  nip 
it  in  the  bud.  The  Spanish  warship  Infanta  Isabel  this 
morning  steamed  from  this  harbor  for  the  purpose,  one 
of  her  officers  said,  of  intercepting  the  filibusters  on  the 
high  seas. 

"It  is  also  stated  that  a  prominent  and  gallant  member 
of  the  Cuban  revolutionary  society  will  head  the  expedi 
tion,  but  his  identity  has  not  been  disclosed." 


132  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

Mrs.  Harding  glances  through  the  clipping  and  hands 
it  back  with  a  quizzical  smile. 

"So  you  are  the  prominent  and  gallant  member  of 
the  Cuban  revolutionary  society  referred  to?"  she  infers. 

"Not  so  loud!"  cautions  Don  Manada.  "We  may  be 
overheard.  What  think  you  of  the  voyage  now, 
senora?" 

"I  fear  it  is  a  bit  too  dangerous/'  replies  Isabel,  with  a 
yawn.  "We  should  never  reach  Cuba." 

"Trust  me,"  assents  Don  Manada,  complacently. 
"Once  on  the  high  seas,  the  Isabel  will  lead  the  Spanish 
warships  a  pretty  chase." 

"Ah,  the  name  of  your  schooner  is  the  Isabel?'' 

"Of  our  yacht — yes.    Is  it  not  happily  named?" 

"Perhaps  so,"  answers  Mrs.  Harding,  with  an  enig 
matic  expression  in  her  lustrous  eyes.  "And  where 
should  I  find  your  yacht  in  case  I  should  at  the  last 
moment  decide  to  accept  your  offer  of  a  merry  voyage  to 
the  tropics?" 

"My  yacht?  I  should  conduct  you  to  it,"  says  Don 
Manada  in  some  surprise. 

"Oh,  no;  that  would  not  do,"  objects  Isabel.  "I  should 
be  driven  to  it  veiled  just  preceding  its  departure." 

Don  Manada  looks  around  the  arcade,  but  there  is 
no  one  within  twenty  feet  of  their  table. 

"North  river,  foot  of  23d  street,''  he  whispers.  "You 
will  go?"  as  Isabel  appears  to  be  hesitating  mid  con 
flicting  emotions. 

"You  will  promise  not  to  make  love  to  me  during  the 
entire  voyage?" 

"I  will  promise  anything,  senora,  though  you  have 
imposed  an  unhappy  obligation." 

"Then  I  think  I  will  say — yes." 

"Bueno!''  cries  the  delighted  Don  Manada,  and,  seiz 
ing  Isabel's  hand,  he  covers  it  with  passionate  kisses. 

"Oh,  by  the  way,  what  time  do  you  sail?" 

"At  5  o'clock." 

"Very  well.  I  will  send  final  word  to  your  hotel  in 
the  morning.  Now,  leave  me  to  dream  over  my  folly," 


A  REPRISAL  OF  TREACHERY.  133 

says  Mrs.  Harding,  disengaging  the  hand  which  Don 
Manada  still  tenderly  holds. 

Then,  as  the  latter  goes  off  to  the  wine-room  to  sub 
merge  his  happiness  in  champagne,  Isabel  leans  back  in 
her  chair  and  laughs  softly.  "The  fool,"  she  sneers. 
"Well,  all  men  are  fools — all  but  one." 

"And  that  one?"  inquires  a  voice  behind  her.  She 
looks  up  startled,  to  meet  the  calm  gaze  of  a  man  of  per 
haps  50,  with  dark  hair  and  mustache  slightly  tinged  with 
gray  and  the  distinct  air  of  a  soldier. 

"Ah,  who  but  yourself?"  returns  Isabel  composedly. 
"Sit  down,  Gen.  Murillo.  I  have  much  to  tell  you." 

The  intelligence  is  plainly  of  a  pleasing  nature.  Gen. 
Murillo  murmurs  "Bueno!"  more  than  once  as  he  listens, 
and  when  she  finishes  he  remarks  approvingly:  "You 
have  done  well  and  may  count  on  my  gratitude." 

"Gracias/'  responds  Isabel.  "That  is  about  the  extent 
of  my  Spanish,  General." 

"Ah,  but  you  will  learn  readily.  It  is  simple.  Hist!  a 
gentleman  approaches.  It  were  well  if  we  be  seen  little 
together  to-night.  Until  the  morrow  then,  adios." 

Gen.  Murillo  moves  off  toward  the  swirl  of  dancers 
and  Isabel  surveys  with  an  air  of  recognition  a  gentleman 
in  the  costume  of  Don  Caesar  de  Bazan,  who  has  de 
scended  to  the  arcade  by  the  north  stairway  and  is 
coming  slowly  toward  her.  Don  Caesar  looks  curiously 
after  the  departing  form  of  the  Spaniard;  then,  dropping 
into  a  chair  beside  Isabel,  he  tosses  off  his  mask  and  asks 
carelessly:  "Well,  my  dear  Isabel,  when  do  you  leave 
for  Cuba?" 

"For  Cuba?"  repeats  Mrs.  Harding  in  simulated  sur 
prise. 

"Exactly.  After  a  glance  at  the  gentleman  who  just 
left  you  I  do  not  need  to  be  enlightened  as  to  the  diplo 
matic  duties  to  which  you  alluded  last  night." 

"Well,  Phillip,  I  have  few  secrets  that  you  do  not 
share,"  Isabel  says  sweetly;  "I  leave  for  Cuba  to-mor 
row." 

"So  soon,"  he  murmurs  courteously. 

"The  sooner  the  better.     Every  day  I  am  near  you 


134  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

makes  eventual  separation  the  harder.  I  know  that  you 
care  nothing  for  me,"  she  goes  on,  her  cheeks  flushed 
crimson.  "Don't  interrupt  me,"  as  Van  Zandt  seeks  to 
interpose  a  protest.  "I  know  that  you  care  nothing  for 
me,  not  in  the  way  I  would  have  you  feel.  I  have  your 
friendship,  yes,  beyond  that  I  am  nothing  to  you.  And 
I — I  love  you,  Phillip — love  you  as  I  never  expected  to 
love  a  man.  I  make  the  avowal  without  shame,  for  I 
know  there  is  no  possibility  of  a  change  in  your  senti 
ments  toward  me.  And  I  am  going  away — to-morrow/' 
half  sobs  the  woman,  as  she  covers  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

Van  Zandt  lays  his  hand  upon  Isabel's  head  and 
smooths  the  dark  tresses  sympathetically.  She  pushes 
the  hand  away. 

"Courage !  Tears  ill  become  a  diplomat,"  declares  Van 
Zandt.  "This  is  a  dreary  world.  We  seldom  attain  our 
heart's  desire,  even  though  the  object  we  seek  be  a  lowly 
one.  Will  you  have  some  wine?"  Isabel  shakes  her  head. 
She  has  dried  her  eyes  and  has  relapsed  into  an  apathetic 
melancholy. 

Van  Zandt  signals  to  a  waiter.  "A  little  wine  will  help 
lighten  our  hearts,"  he  tells  Mrs.  Harding;  "for  believe 
me,  mine  is  not  less  heavy  than  yours.  Cheer  up  and  we 
will  drink  a  toast  to  all  unrequited  love." 

Isabel  gives  him  a  swift  look  of  surprise.  "You 
heard?"  she  demands. 

"I  heard  nothing,"  he  replies,  smilingly.  "What  has 
given  rise  to  your  question?" 

"  Tis  less  than  an  hour  since  I  offered  that  very  toast. 
I  have  had  a  proposal  to-night." 

"Indeed?    And  you  rejected  it?" 

"Can  you  ask  such  a  question.  The  world  is  full  of 
Don  Manadas,  but  there  is  only  one " 

"So?  The  swarthy  gentleman,  with  the  curious  white 
mustachios?"  interrupts  Van  Zandt.  "I  noticed  you  talk 
ing  with  him." 

"I  had  rejected  him  twice  before,  but  his  persistence  is 
worthy  of  a  better  cause.  To-night  I  promised  to  ac- 


A  REPRISAL  OP  TREACHERY.  135 

company  him  on  a  filibustering  expedition  to  Cuba. 
Think  of  it!  The  fool!''  sneers  Isabel. 

"And  you  will  not  go." 

"Most  certainly  not.  I  only  half-promised.  To-mor 
row  I  shall  send  word  that  I  have  changed  my  mind." 

"And  meanwhile  you  have  accomplished  something 
toward  your  new  duties,  eh?"  remarks  Van  Zandt.  If 
Isabel  Harding  could  read  the  dark,  handsome  face  that 
she  loves  so  well,  she  would  know  that  she  has  lost  for 
ever  the  esteem  of  Phillip  Van  Zandt. 

"You  have  betrayed  the  man  who  trusted  you,"  con 
tinues  Van  Zandt  in  the  same  quiet  and  impassive  voice. 

"Betrayed  him?  And  what  if  I  did?"  flashes  Isabel 
passionately.  "Call  it  treachery  if  you  will.  I  say  it  is 
only  a  reprisal  of  treachery.  Take  me  out  of  here,  Phillip. 
I  am  sick  of  these  lights  and  the  music  and  the  scent  of 
the  flowers." 

"I  will  see  you  to  a  carriage,"  says  Van  Zandt,  quietly. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  says  good-by  to  her,  as  he  pre 
pares  to  close  the  carriage  door. 

"Some  day,  Phillip,  you  will  realize  how  much  I  love 
you,"  Isabel  whispers,  as  she  presses  to  her  lips  the  hand 
he  mechanically  gives  her. 

Words,  words,  words;  but  destined  to  have  a  tragic 
fulfillment! 

Van  Zandt  looks  after  the  retreating  carriage  with  a 
darkening  brow.  "Call  it  treachery  if  you  will/'  he  re 
peats,  grimly.  "By  George!  I'll  spike  her  ladyship's 
guns!  The  cause  of  liberty  shall  not  be  jeopardized  by 
the  indiscretion  of  its  friends  or  the  machinations  of  its 
enemies !" 

As  he  turns  and  re-enters  the  garden  a  man  steps  to  a 
waiting  cab,  and,  indicating  the  carriage  which  is  bearing 
off  Isabel  Harding,  he  whispers  to  his  driver:  "Keep 
that  rig  in  view  till  it  stops.  Understand?" 


186  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

FOR  THE  CAUSE  OF  LIBERTY. 

"You  proposed  to  a  lady  to-night." 

"What  is  that  to  you,  sir?"  Don  Manada  turns  fiercely 
upon  the  gentleman  who  has  tapped  him  upon  the 
shoulder  and  requested  the  pleasure  of  a  few  moments' 
conversation  with  him. 

"Nothing  to  me,  perhaps,"  returns  Phillip  Van  Zandt, 
quietly;  "to  you  much,  possibly.  Sit  down.  Or  better, 
suppose  we  adjourn  to  the  arcade.  We  shall  be  freer 
from  interruption  there." 

"I  must  decline  to  accompany  you,  sir,  until  I  have 
reason  to  believe  that  the  matter  on  which  you  desire  to 
talk  is  of  more  importance  than  your  opening  remark 
would  indicate." 

Van  Zandt  surveys  the  Cuban  with  a  trifle  of  impa 
tience.  "As  you  please,"  he  observes.  "But  permit  me 
to  say  that  upon  your  disposition  to  listen  to  what  I 
have  to  impart  depends  the  success  or  failure  of  the  ex 
pedition  which  is  to  start  for  Cuba  to-morrow — or,  rather, 
to-day." 

Manada  starts  violently  and  bends  a  searching  look 
upon  the  other's  face.  "Nothing  could  be  of  greater  im 
portance  to  me,  sir,"  he  says,  and  without  further  remark 
he  follows  Van  Zandt  to  the  little  table  where  an,  hour  ago 
he  for  the  third  time  offered  Isabel  Harding  his  hand  and 
heart. 

"Now,  to  business,"  remarks  Van  Zandt,  glancing  at 
his  watch.  "It  is  1 :3O.  Thirty  minutes  for  talk,  the  rest 
of  the  night  for  action.  You  are  Don  Manada  of  the 
Cuban  revolutionary  society."  That  gentleman  bows. 
"I  am  Phillip  Van  Zandt.  That  is  all  you  need  know 
concerning  myself.  Mrs.  Isabel  Harding,  the  lady  to 
whom  you  made  violent  love  to-night" — the  Cuban 
scowls,  but  Van  Zandt  goes  on  relentlessly — "I  have 
known  for  some  months.  She  has  honored  me — shall  I 


FOR  THE  CAUSE  OF  LIBERTY.  137 

say? — with  her  deep  regard.  Perhaps  she  hinted  as 
much  to  you." 

Manada  leans  back  in  his  chair  and  looks  his  new 
acquaintance  over  critically.  This,  then,  was  his  rival;  a 
negative  one,  to  oe  sure,  but  a  rival  that  any  man  might 
fear. 

"If  it  will  flatter  your  vanity  to  know  that  the  lady 
in  question  confessed  to  me  that  she  loved  only  one  man 
in  the  world  and  that  that  happy  individual  was  not 
myself,  you  are  welcome  to  the  information,"  Manada 
offers,  sarcastically. 

"Thank  you.  But  I  was  already  aware  of  the  fact,  and 
it  is  not  to  the  point.  You  proposed  to  Mrs.  Harding  and 
were  rejected.  Stay,"  as  the  other  colors  and  is  about 
to  make  an  angry  retort:  "I  did  not  bring  you  here,  sir, 
to  refresh  your  mind  one  instance  in  which  the  usually 
discriminating  Isabel  displayed  poor  taste.  But  I  repeat, 
she  rejected  you;  hence  subsequently  something  must 
have  occurred  between  you  to  lead  up  to  a  rather  peculiar 
agreement — Mrs.  Harding's  consent  to  accompany  you 
on  a  filibustering  expedition?" 

"Caramba!    She  told  you — you  overheard " 

"I  overheard  nothing.  Eavesdropping  is  not  in  my 
line.  And  she  told  me  little  more;  but  enough  to  warrant 
me  in  stating  that  you  have  been  indiscreet,  sir,  to  use 
no  harsher  term,  and  have  jeopardized  not  only  your  own 
welfare  but  that  of  your  fellow-countrymen." 

"You  seem  to  be  pretty  familiar  with  my  affairs,  senor." 

"Not  so  familiar  with  them  as  the  Spanish  government 
and  the  United  States  authorities  may  be,"  responds  Van 
Zandt,  dryly.  "All  I  know  of  your  plans  I  have  told  you. 
What  I  do  not  know  you  will  tell  me  now." 

An  angry  rejoinder  trembles  on  Manada's  lips,  but 
something  in  the  stern,  quiet  air  of  the  man  before  him 
checks  his  wrath. 

"Mrs.  Harding,"  resumes  Van  Zandt,  "consented  to 
go  to  Cuba  with  you,  did  she  not?" 

"Practically,  yes." 

"And  you  were  to  receive  her  final  decision  on  the 
morrow?" 


138  UNDR    THREE   FLAGS. 

"Well,  senor?" 

"She  will  not  go." 

"Then  you  persuaded  her — you  interfered,"  cries  Ma- 
nada  hotly. 

"I  did  nothing  of  the  sort.  Still,  I  repeat,  she  will  not 
go.  But,  stay,  perhaps  she  will,"  murmurs  Van  Zandt, 
thoughtfully.  "Perhaps  her  ladyship's  plans  lie  deeper 
than  I  have  supposed,"  he  thinks.  "But  even  if  she  does 
go,  I  tell  you,  my  friend,  it  were  far  better  that  you 
burned  your  vessel  where  it  now  lies  than  that  Isabel 
Harding  sets  foot  upon  its  deck." 

"Your  meaning?"  demands  Manada  in  a  hoarse  whis 
per. 

"Your  face  tells  me  that  you  have  guessed  the  truth," 
Van  Zandt  says  more  kindly.  "The  woman  has  betrayed 
you.  She  is  a  spy — diplomat  is  the  polite  word — in  the 
employ  of  the  Spanish  government." 

"Caramba!"  hisses  Manada,  sinking  back  into  his  chair 
with  colorless  cheeks.  "But  you  can  furnish  proof  of 
what  you  assert?"  he  cries  almost  eagerly. 

Van  Zandt's  lip  curls.  "Had  you  watched  the  fair 
Isabel  after  you  left  her  you  would  have  seen  join  her  a 
gentleman  whose  presence  in  itself  would  have  been 
proof  sufficient — Gen.  Murillo.  You  know  him?" 

"Of  the  Spanish  service/'  murmurs  Manada  in  crushed 
tones. 

"Precisely.  I  met  him  at  the  club  the  other  day.  And 
if  I  mistake  not  he  has  done  an  excellent  bit  of  work  for 
his  government  to-night." 

"But  I  will  find  the  woman,"  bursts  out  Manada,  leap 
ing  to  his  feet.  "Por  Dios !  I  will  search  her  out  and " 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  interrupts  Van 
Zandt,  drawing  the  excited  man  back  into  his  chair. 
"Mrs.  Harding  left  for  her  hotel  half  an  hour  ago.  Even 
were  she  here  it  would  avail  you  nothing  to  confront  her 
with  her — diplomacy.  Gen.  Murillo  is  already  in  pos 
session  of  your  plans.  No,  my  friend;  the  mischief  is 
done,  but  happily  it  is  not  irremediable." 

"Ah !"  cries  Manada,  with  a  flash  of  hope. 


FOR  THE  CAUSE  OF  LIBERTY.  139 

"Now,  listen  to  me.  We  have  wasted  too  much  time 
already.  What  is  the  name  of  your  vessel?" 

"The  Isabel." 

"So?  Pretty  name,  but  have  it  changed  at  the  first 
opportunity.  Where  does  she  now  lie?" 

'North  River,  foot  of  Twenty-third  Street. 

"Excellent,"  comments  Van  Zandt,  his  eyes  lighting 
with  satisfaction.  "And  at  what  time  did  you  intend  to 
sail?" 

"At  five  in  the  afternoon." 

"You  are  of  course  aware  that  both  the  Spanish  and 
United  States  governments  are  on  the  keen  lookout  for 
filibustering  craft?" 

"Certainly,"  Manada  replies,  grimly.  "But  we  were 
confident  of  slipping  through  unmolested.  We  had  ar 
ranged  to  clear  for  the  Bermudas,  and  once  on  the  high 
seas  we  felt  sure  of  running  away  from  any  warships  that 
might  lie  in  our  course." 

"Ah,  your  vessel  is  a  yacht.  And  the  cargo — of  what 
does  that  consist?" 

"Two  thousand  rifles  and  200,000  rounds  of  car 
tridges." 

"How  is  it  loaded?" 

"The  ammunition  is  packed  in  kegs,  ostensibly  contain 
ing  salt  fish ;  the  rifles  are  in  bags  and  are  hidden  at  the 
bottom  of  bins  of  potatoes  in  the  hold." 

"The  cargo  could  be  shifted  before  daybreak,  do  you 
think?" 

"Two  or  three  hours  should  suffice." 

"Good.  You  must  have  noticed,  lying  in,  the  neighbor 
hood  of  your  vessel,  a  rather  trim  article  in  the  yacht 
line." 

"The  Semiramis?  Yes.  A  magnificent  vessel!"  ex 
claims  Manada. 

Van  Zandt  nods.  She  is  my  property  and  I  believe 
her  to  be  the  fastest  vessel  afloat  in  the  world  to-day. 
Now  here  is  my  plan — I  consider  it  the  only  one  that  will 
extricate  you  from  the  dilemma  in  which  you  are  placed : 
I  will  place  the  Semiramis  at  the  service  of  the  struggling 
patriots  of  the  Antilles.  We  will  shift  the  Isabel's  cargo 


140  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

before  the  night  is  gone,  and  before  the  sun  goes  down 
on  another  day  the  Semiramis  will  be  on  her  way  to 
Cuba.  Once  without  New  York  bay  I  defy  anything 
short  of  a  cannon  ball  to  overhaul  her.  What  say  you, 
Don  Manada?" 

The  Cuban's  face  expresses  the  astonishment  and  joy 
that  he  feels.  To  be  raised  suddenly  from  the  depths  of 
despair  to  the  pinnacle  of  hope  effects  a  remarkable 
change  in  one  of  his  temperament. 

"Santa  Maria!"  he  cries,  as  he  presses  warmly  Van 
Zandt's  hands.  "You  have  done  me  as  great  a  service 
as  one  man  can  do  another.  Por  Dios !  We  shall  outwit 
them  cleverly." 

"Then  let  us  be  off,"  says  Van  Zandt  "It  is  after  2 
o'clock  and  we  have  little  time  to  spare." 

The  men  secure  their  coats  and  hats  and  ten  minutes 
later  board  a  cross-town  car. 

"Senor  Van  Zandt,  I  owe  you  a  debt  of  gratitude,"  de 
clares  Manada;  "yet  I  find  myself  marveling  that  you,  a 
stranger,  and  the  one  man  to  win  Isabel  Harding's  affec 
tion,  should  interest  yourself  in  me  and  the  cause  I  repre 
sent." 

"Oh,  it  promised  an  adventure;  something  I  have  long 
been  in  need  of  to  stir  my  blood  to  action,"  replies  Van 
Zandt,  lightly.  "Besides,  am  I  not  an  American,  and  is  not 
the  cause  of  liberty  a  cause  that  appeals  to  every  Ameri 
can  with  a  spark  of  manhood  in  his  soul?  Only  those 
who  know  what  liberty  is  realize  its  priceless  worth." 

They  are  now  walking  along  West  Street.  Manada 
silently  reproaching  himself  with  his  recent  folly,  wraps 
his  greatcoat  more  tightly  about  him,  and  breathes  a 
shivering  malediction  on  the  cutting  winds  that  sweep 
adown  the  Hudson. 

The  sky  is  overcast  and  a  slight  snow  is  falling.  It  is 
a  good  night  for  the  work  in  hand. 

The  river  front  is  black  and  silent  and  the  outlines  of 
the  vessels  about  the  pier  are  barely  distinguishable 
through  the  driving  storm. 

West  Street,  though  dimly  lighted,  is  not  deserted. 
From  the  grog-shops  come  echoes  of  many  a  brawl,  and 


FOR  THE  CAUSE  OF  LIBERTY  141 

every  now  and  then  a  drunken  longshoreman  reels  or  is 
thrown  into  the  street  and  staggers  off,  heaven  knows 
where.  Every  half-hour  or  so  a  ferry  boat  lumbers  in  and 
out  of  the  slip,  and  there  is  a  temporary  bustle  in  the 
vicinage. 

"A  miserable  night,  senor,"  remarks  Van  Zandt,  as 
they  cross  West  Street  and  pick  their  way  toward  the 
pier  where  lies  the  vessel  in  which  are  centered  now  all 
of  Don  Manada's  hopes.  The  latter  has  forgotten  for 
the  nonce  his  recent  humiliation  and  is  keenly  alive  to 
the  adventurous  undertaking  in  hand. 

The  men  plunge  through  the  gloom,  muffled  to  the 
eyes  and  with  heads  bent  before  the  biting  blasts  from 
the  river,  when  their  ears  are  suddenly  assailed  by  the 
sound  of  a  scuffle  ahead  of  them  and  a  half-choked  cry 
for  help.  Quickening  their  steps,  they  run  upon  two 
men.  One  of  them  is  prone  upon  the  pier;  the  other, 
clearly  his  assailant,  bends  over  him. 

Before  the  scamp  can  rise  Van  Zandt  deals  him  a  blow 
with  his  heavy  cane  that  stretches  him  beside  his  victim. 
He  is  not  a  courageous  rogue,  or  if  he  is  realizes  that  his 
chance  for  an  argument  is  not  especially  good.  So  when 
he  struggles  to  his  feet  he  makes  off  without  a  word, 
without  even  an  imprecation. 

Van  Zandt  and  Manada  raise  the  prostrate  form  and 
bear  it  back  to  the  street.  As  the  lamplight  falls  upon  the 
face  of  the  unconscious  man  Van  Zandt  utters  an  ejacu 
lation  of  astonishment. 

"By  heaven!  it  is  Gen.  Murillo!  You  see,  my  friend, 
that  I  was  not  mistaken.  He  probably  came  down  here 
to  have  a  look  at  the  Isabel,  and  was  set  upon  by  one  of 
the  scum  of  the  river  front." 

Manada  nods  a  silent  assent.  "He  must  not  see  us," 
he  mutters,  uneasily. 

"Don't  be  alarmed.  He  is  not  likely  to  recognize  any 
one  for  a  few  minutes.  I  hope  he  is  not  badly  hurt.  Off 
with  him  to  yonder  saloon;  or,  better,  to  the  ferryhouse. 
The  man  will  be  safer  there,  though  we  are  more  likely  to 
find  a  policeman  at  the  saloon." 

A  policeman  is  at  the  ferryhouse,  however,  and  assist- 


142  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

ance  is  summoned.  Van  Zandt  and  Manada  wait  until 
Gen.  Murillo  is  laid  in  the  ambulance  and  the  surgeon 
in  charge  has  assured  them  that  the  man  is  not  fatally 
hurt;  then  they  tell  their  story  to  the  policeman  and  go 
about  their  business. 

"A  peculiar  episode,"  remarks  Van  Zandt.  "Our  friend 
will  never  know  to  whom  he  owes  his  rescue  and  perhaps 
his  life.  Our  affair  must  be  hurried,  nevertheless,  for  we 
know  what  his  first  effort  will  be  when  he  recovers  con 
sciousness." 

"Yet  some  day,  when  Cuba  is  free,  I  shall  have  the 
pleasure  of  recalling  the  incident  to  his  mind." 

"When  Cuba  is  free,"  repeats  Van  Zandt.  "Well,  luck- 
favoring  us,  we  shall  fire  a  shot  to-day  that  will  ring 
in  the  ears  of  the  government  at  Madrid.  Here  we  are 
at  the  Semiramis.  Where  is  the  Isabel?" 

"Just  beyond.    Not  twenty  feet  away." 

Van  Zandt  hails  his  yacht  and  ten  minutes  later  he  and 
Manada  are  in  the  luxurious  cabin,  in  consultation  with 
Capt.  Beals,  a  bluff  old  Maine  sea  dog,  who  is  prepared 
for  any  caprice  on  the  part  of  his  employer  and  expresses 
not  the  least  surprise  when  informed  that  arrangements 
for  a  cruise  to  Cuba  must  be  instantly  set  afoot. 

And  that  morning,  while  the  wind  howls  around  Man 
hattan  Island,  and  drives  the  sleet  into  the  eyes  of  belated 
pedestrians;  while  Murillo  awakens  to  consciousness  in 
Bellevue  Hospital  and  tells  the  attending  surgeon  that, 
head  or  no  head,  he  leaves  for  Cuba  within  half  a  dozen 
hours;  and  while  the  last  carriage  load  of  half-drunken 
sports  dashes  away  from  the  Madison  Square  Garden,  a 
work  is  in  progress  aboard  the  Semiramis  that  means 
more  to  its  owner  than  he  dreams  of  as  he  stands  with 
folded  arms  in  the  dim  light  of  the  ship  lanterns,  watching 
silently  the  transshipment  of  the  insurgent's  arms. 


TWO  KINDS  OF  BLOCKADE.  143 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

TWO  KINDS  OF  BLOCKADE. 

About  9:30  of  the  morning  following-  the  French  ball 
Phillip  Van  Zandt  drops  into  his  favorite  seat  in  the 
dining-room  of  the  St.  James  Hotel  and  picks  up  the 
morning  paper. 

Scarcely  had  he  unfolded  it  when  his  attention  was 
attracted  by  two  persons  seated  at  the  table  beyond  him. 
'They  are  Cyrus  Felton  and  Louise  Hathaway,  and  the 
latter  never  looked  fairer  than  on  this  bright  March 
morning. 

"Ah,  my  divinity  of  the  ball,"  he  murmurs.  "By  Eros! 
She  is  superb.  Hair,  a  mass  of  gold  and  the  sunlight 
gives  it  just  the  right  effect.  Purity  and  innocence  are  in 
those  blue  eyes  and  in  every  line  of  the  face.  Knowing 
no  evil  and  fearing  none,  and  yet  with  the  self-poise  of  a 
queen.  It  almost  restores  one's  confidence  in  humanity 
to  look  upon  such  a  face. 

'T  would  be  glad  indeed  to  know  her,  but  the  oppor 
tunity  for  an  introduction  is  not  likely  to  arise.  I  could 
scarcely  presume  on  last  night's  meeting,  and  besides, 
she  would  hold  me  to  my  word.  What  impulse  possessed 
her  to  remove  her  mask  at  my  request?  I'll  wager  she 
regretted  it  an  instant  later.  Well,  she  did  not  see  my 
face,  so  I  may  devour  her  visually  in  perfect  safety." 

"And  her  companion?''  Van  Zandt  goes  on  medi 
tatively.  "Not  her  husband,  assuredly.  Too  old  for  that. 
More  likely  her  father,  or  perhaps  her  guardian.  They 
are  going  to  Cuba,  so  she  told  me.  Well,  I  am  going  to 
Cuba,  too.  I  may  meet  her  there.  Friendships  are  easily 
cultivated  in  a  foreign  land.  My  dear  Van  Zandt,  is  it 
possible  that  you  are  becoming  interested  in  a  woman? 
Careful;  you  forget  who  you  are/'  he  concludes  bitterly, 
and  stares  moodily  out  upon  the  crowded  street. 

Mr.  Felton  and  Miss  Hathaway  are  breakfasting  leis 
urely,  unconscious  of  the  interest  they  have  aroused  in 


144  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

the  gentleman  at  the  next  table.  -Mr.  Felton  is  scanning 
the  columns  of  the  Hemisphere,  with  particular  reference 
to  the  full  dispatches  from  Cuba  and  Madrid.  Suddenly 
he  drops  the  paper  with  the  exclamation:  "This  is  very 
unfortunate!" 

"What  is  unfortunate?"  inquires  Miss  Hathaway,  sip 
ping  her  coffee. 

"Here  is  a  dispatch  from  'Havana,  stating  that  the 
government  has  ordered  a  complete  blockade  of  the 
island  and  that  all  steamship  engagements  to  and  from 
Cuba  have  been  canceled  for  an  indefinite  period." 

Miss  Hathaway  looks  up  in  mild  dismay.  "Then  we 
cannot  leave  Saturday/'  she  says. 

"It  would  seem  not  Ah,  here  is  something  more.  The 
newspaper  has  looked  up  the  report  at  the  New  York 
end  and  finds  it  to  be  true.  The  steamer  City  of  Havana 
of  the  Red  Star  line,  this  paper  says,  will  probably  be  the 
last  passenger  vessel  to  leave  New  York  for  Cuba  until 
the  blockade  is  raised." 

"But  can  we  not  go  on  that?" 

Mr.  Felton  reads  on :  "The  City  of  Havana  sails  to-day 
at  II  o'clock."  Then  he  glances  at  his  watch.  "It  is  now 
nearly  10.  Perhaps  we  can  make  it.  Wait,  I  will  ascer 
tain  from  the  clerk." 

Mr.  Felton  rises,  and  as  he  turns  to  leave  the  dining 
room  Van  Zandt  gets  a  view  of  his  face,  and  he  starts 
as  if  from  a  nightmare. 

"That  face  again !"  he  breathes.  "That  face,  which  has 
haunted  my  dreams  and  has  been  before  me  in  my  wak 
ing  hours!  And  her  father!  Merciful  heaven,  it  cannot 
be.  There  is  a  limit  to  fate's  grotesquerie." 

Miss  Hathaway  glances  in  Van  Zandt's  direction  and 
their  eyes  meet.  It  is  only  an  instant,  but  it  leaves  the 
girl  somewhat  confused  and  accentuates  the  young  man's 
disorder. 

At  this  juncture  Mr.  Felton  returns  with  the  informa 
tion  that  they  have  little  more  than  an  hour  to  reach 
Barclay  Street  and  the  North  River,  from  which  point  the 
steamer  leaves. 

"Then  let  us  go  at  once.    I  am  ready,"  Louise  says, 


TWO  KINDS  OF  BLOCKADE.  145 

"after  I  have  scribbled  a  note  of  explanation  to  Mr. 
Ashley.  He  was  to  have  lunched  with  us  at  i  o'clock, 
you  know." 

After  they  have  gone  Van  Zandt  drops  his  head  upon 
his  hand,  and  for  the  space  of  ten  minutes  remains 
plunged  in  thought.  Then,  to  the  waiter's  surprise,  he 
leaves  his  breakfast  untouched  and  quits  the  dining-room. 

In  the  office  he  sees  Mr.  Felton  settling  his  bill.  Out 
side  the  hotel  a  line  of  "cabbies"  are  drawn  up  and  these 
Van  Zandt  looks  over  critically,  finally  signaling  to  one 
of  them,  a  jovial,  red  visaged  Irishman. 

"Riley,  a  lady  and  gentleman  are  going  from  this  hotel 
to  Barclay  Street  and  North  River  within  a  few  minutes. 
I  want  you  to  have  the  job  of  carrying  them,"  says  Van 
Zandt. 

"I'm  agreeable,  sor." 

"After  you  have  secured  the  job,  I  want  you  to<  miss  the 
steamer  which  sails  for  Cuba  at  II  o'clock.  Under 
stand?" 

Riley  puckers  up  his  mouth  for  a  whistle  which  he  de 
cides  to  suppress. 

"Sure  that  would  not  be  hard,  sor.  It's  tin  o'clock 
now." 

"Here  they  come  now.  Look  to  your  job,"  says  Van 
Zandt. 

Mr.  Felton  and  Miss  Hathaway  emerge  from  the  hotel, 
followed  by  a  porter  with  their  trunks.  Amid  a  chorus 
of  "Keb,  sir!"  "Keb!"  "Keb!"  in  which  Riley  sings  a 
heavy  bass,  Mr.  Felton  looks  about  him  in  perplexity, 
and  finally,  as  though  annoyed  by  the  importunities  of 
Riley,  who  is  rather  overdoing  his  part,  he  selects  a  rival 
"cabbie." 

Riley  turns  somewhat  sheepishly  to  Van  Zandt,  who 
looks  after  the  disappearing  carriage  in  vexation. 

"Shall  I  run  them  down,  sor?"  asks  the  Irishman,  with 
a  wink  which  means  volumes. 

"Can  you  prevent  them  reaching  the  pier?" 

"Sure,  I  think  so,  your  honor." 

"I'll  give  you  $50  if.  you  do  it." 


146  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Be  hivens!  Pd  murdther  thim  for  that,"  exclaims 
Riley,  as  he  leaps  to  his  box. 

The  two  cabs  proceeded  at  a  smart  pace  down  Fifth 
Avenue,  but  as  the  congested  trucking  district  is  reached 
progress  becomes  slower. 

"Can  you  make  the  pier  in  time?"  Mr.  Felton  asks  the 
driver  anxiously,  consulting  his  watch  for  the  dozenth 
time. 

"Sure  thing,"  is  the  confident  response. 

Neither  the  driver  nor  his  passengers  see  the  cab  be 
hind  them.  Riley  has  his  reins  grasped  tightly  in  one 
hand,  his  whip  in  the  other,  and  the  expression  on 
his  round  red  face  indicates  that  he  is  preparing  for 
something  out  of  the  ordinary. 

They  have  now  reached  lower  West  Broadway,  and 
before  Mr.  Felton's  driver  knows  it  he  has  become  en 
tangled  in  a  rapidly  created  blockade. 

Progress  now  is  snail-like.  Mr.  Felton  becomes  nerv 
ous,  while  Miss  Hathaway  finds  much  to  interest  her  in 
the  seemingly  inextricable  tangle  of  trucks,  drays,  horse 
cars,  cabs,  etc.  Suddenly  a  space  of  a  dozen  feet  or  so 
opens  before  them,  and  the  driver  is  about  to  take  advan 
tage  of  it  when  Riley  gives  his  horse  a  cut  with  the  \vhip 
and  bumps  by,  nearly  taking  a  wheel  off  the  other  cab. 

Then  ensues  a  duel  of  that  picturesque  profanity  with 
out  which  no  truck  blockade  could  possibly  be  disen 
tangled. 

Riley,  who  is  ordinarily  one  of  the  most  good-natured 
of  mortals,  becomes  suddenly  sensitive  under  the  abuse 
heaped  upon  him  and  dragging  the  rival  cabman  from 
his  box  he  proceeds  to  handle  him  in  a  manner  that 
affords  keen  delight  to  the  onlookers. 

It  is  a  snappy  morning  and  Riley  rather  enjoys  the 
exercise  he  is  taking.  But  it  is  suddenly  ended  by  a 
brace  of  policemen,  who  struggle  upon  the  scene  and 
pounce  upon  the  combatants.  Explanations  are  then 
in  order  and  peace  is  restored.  No  one  is  arrested. 

Riley  is  willing  to  break  away,  for  as  he  looks  around 
he  notes  with  satisfaction  that  the  blockade  has  increased 


TWO  KINDS  OF  BLOCKADE.  147 

to  unusual  proportions  and  he  awaits  serenely  its  slow 
unraveling. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Felton  is  invoking  the  vials  of  wrath 
upon  all  cabmen,  past,  present  and  to  come.  It  is  nearly 
1 1 :3<D  when  they  reach  the  pier  and,  as  they  expect,  the 
steamer  has  gone. 

"  'Tain't  my  fault,  mum,"  the  "cabbie"  explains  apolo 
getically.  "Minis  the  chap  what  done  it,"  indicating 
Riley,  who  has  driven  up  to  the  pier  with  the  triumphant 
flourish  of  a  winner  in  a  great  race. 

Mr.  Felton  casts  a  withering  look  upon  the  jolly  Irish 
man.  "We  may  as  well  return  to  the  hotel,"  he  tells 
Louise. 

At  this  moment  Van  Zandt  steps  from  his  cab,  and, 
raising  his  hat,  remarks: 

"I  trust  that  the  carelessness  of  my  driver  has  not 
caused  you  serious  annoyance." 

"He  has  prevented  our  catching  the  last  steamer  that 
will  sail  for  Cuba  in  probably  some  months,"  replies 
Mr.  Felton,  tartly. 

"You  blockhead !''  cries  Van  Zandt  sternly,  turning  to 
Riley,  who  averts  his  face. 

"My  dear  sir,  it  is  needless  for  me  to  assure  you  of  my 
profound  regret.  It  will  not  help  matters.  The  mischief 
is  done — and  yet  I  think  I  can  repair  it." 

"Repair  it?"  repeats  Mr.  Felton.  "In  what  possible 
way,  sir?" 

"Very  easily,  if  you  desire.  You  were  going  to  Ha 
vana,  I  presume?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"My  yacht  sails  for  Santiago  thisafternoon  at  I  o'clock. 
I  shall  be  happy  to  land  you  at  that  port,  and  you  may 
thence  proceed  by  rail  to  Havana." 

Mr.  Felton  and  Louise  look  at  each  other  in  surprise. 
"Really,  sir,"  says  the  former,  "you  are  very  good,  but 
I  do  not  see  how  we  can  put  you  to  such  trouble." 

"I  assure  you  that  you  will  not  inconvenience  me  in 
the  slightest.  The  yacht  is  large  and  you  will  be  the 
only  passengers,  with  one  exception." 

Mr.  Felton  hesitates.    "How  badly  does  he  want  to  go 


148  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

to  Cuba?''  wonders  Van  Zandt  and  he  remarks:  "This 
will  probably  be  your  only  chance  to  reach  Havana  in 
some  little  time,  if,  as  you  say,  there  are  no  more  steam 
ers.  Really,  I  almost  feel  like  insisting  on  your  accept 
ing  my  offer,  as  some  sort  of  reparation  for  the  annoy 
ance  to  which  you  have  been  put  and  for  which  I  feel 
partly  responsible." 

"But  a  blockade  has  been  declared  about  the  island. 
Your  yacht '' 

"My  yacht  will  land  you  at  Santiago,"  supplies  Van 
Zandt,  with  a  peculiar  smile.  "We  sail  in  about  an 
hour,  and  we  may  as  well  proceed  to  the  yacht  at  once. 
For  I  assume  that  you  have  decided  to  permit  me  to  atone 
for  the  blackguardly  behavior  of  my  driver." 

Mr.  Felton  consults  Miss  Hathaway  and  the  matter  is 
decided  in  the  affirmative,  and  as  Van  Zandt  hands  them 
into  their  coupe,  he  tells  the  driver:  "North  River,  foot 
of  Twenty-third  Street." 

An  hour  later  Miss  Hathaway  is  expressing  her  admir 
ation  for  the  beautiful  yacht  that  is  soon  to  bear  her  to 
the  tropics,  and  Capt.  Beals  is  giving  the  last  orders 
preparatory  to  getting  under  way. 

As  Van  Zandt  watches  Mr.  Felton  cross  from  the  pier 
to  the  deck  of  the  Semiramis  into  his  dark  eyes  comes  a 
glitter  of  almost  savage  satisfaction,  and  he  murmurs: 

"I  have  you  safe  now,  and  by  George!  You  will  not 
soon  escape  me!" 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  PENALTY  OF  PROCRASTINATION. 

A  pencil  of  sunlight  has  struggled  through  the  heavy 
draperies  at  the  windows  and  laid  a  tiny  straight  line 
across  the  carpet  in  the  comfortable  apartments  of  Jack 
Ashley  on  West  Thirty-fourth  Street.  The  oriole  time 
piece  on  the  mantel  chimes  the  hour  of  9  when  that 
individual  awakens  with  a  series  of  prodigious  yawns. 


THE  PENALTY  OF  PROCRASTINATION.  149 

Fifteen  minutes  more  and  Ashley's  toilet  is  complete, 
and  with  heels  elevated  to  a  comfortable  angle,  he  pro 
ceeds  to  scan  the  pages  of  his  morning  paper.  His  own 
story  of  the  French  ball  first  claims  his  attention,  and 
with  a  comment  of  satisfaction  on  the  size  of  the  head 
lines  with  which  it  is  introduced,  he  runs  his  eye  approv 
ingly  over  the  dozen  or  so  illustrations  with  which  the 
article  is  embellished. 

A  scare  head  of  the  largest  size  catches  his  eye,  and 
with  awakening  interest  he  reads  the  sensational  head 
lines.  "Gaining  Ground — Cuban  Revolutionists  Driving 
Spaniards  Before  Them — Hemisphere's  Exclusive  Inter 
view  with  Senor  Manada  Creates  Excitement  in  Wash 
ington — United  States  Man-of-War  to  Be  Sent  to  Cuba 
to  Protect  American  Interests,"  and  much  more  of  the 
same  tenor.  As  Jack  skims  over  the  voluminous  dis 
patches  that  follow  the  head,  he  reads  with  interest  one 
brief  item,  dated  Santiago  de  Cuba,  via  Nassau,  N.  P.  It 
is  as  follows : 

The  Government  is  redoubling  its  efforts  to  suppress 
the  news,  and  is  apparently  determined  that  the  press 
of  the  United  States  and  elsewhere  shall  not  learn  the 
exact  state  of  affairs  on  the  island.  Nine-tenths  of  the 
local  newspaper  men  have  been  fined  by  the  press  censor. 
Several  editions  of  the  leading  papers  have  been  seized, 
and  telegrams  for  transmission  abroad  from  eastern 
Cuba  are  now  absolutely  forbidden.  It  is  also  a  fact  that 
foreign  correspondents  have  been  threatened  with  ex 
pulsion.  The  Spanish  authorities  allege  that  the  mys 
terious  steamer  fired  upon  by  the  warship  Galicia  was 
not  the  American  ward  liner  Santiago,  but  a  rebel  vessel 
which  the  insurrectionists  have  purchased  in  the  United 
States  and  fitted  up  as  a  gunboat.  A  blockade  of  all  the 
ports  of  the  island,  as  previously  intimated,  has  been 
formally  announced." 

"It  looks  as  if  the  paper  would  be  obliged  to  send  a 
man  down  there,"  Ashley  reflects,  as  he  struggles  into  his 
topcoat.  "What  a  superb  day  for  the  trial  trip,"  as  he 


150  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

opens  the  street  door  and  steps  into  the  sunlight.  "And 
this  is  the  day,  too,  that  Barker  is  to  arrest  Felton.  He 
didn't  specify  any  time,  probably  not  till  afternoon,  any 
way.  I  almost  wish  I  wasn't  assigned  to  that  trial  trip. 
I  should  like  to  interview  him  after  the  arrest.  How 
ever,  my  story  is  all  written  up  and  I  can  get  the  details 
of  the  arrest  from  Barker  after  I  return  from  the  America. 
I  wonder  how  Miss  'Hathaway  will  take  the  affair,"  a 
softer  light  shining  in  his  eyes  as  his  thoughts  revert 
to  the  beautiful  ward  of  Cyrus  Felton.  "She  treats  him 
with  the  utmost  deference  and  respect,  but  I  cannot 
think  that  she  cares  especially  for  him.  Heigho!  Now 
for  a  cup  of  coffee  and  then  for  another  tete-a-tete  with 
the  beautiful  unknown  of  the  Raymond  Hotel." 

It  is  on  the  stroke  of  10  as  Ashley  saunters  up  to  the 
clerk's  desk  in  the  Kensington  and  requests  that  his 
card,  upon  which  he  has  penciled  a  few  lines  explain 
ing  his  identity,  be  taken  to  Mrs.  Winthrop. 

"Mrs.  Winthrop?"  the  urbane  clerk  repeats.  "There 
is  no  such  lady  stopping  here,  to  my  knowledge." 

Ashley  is  nonplused.  So  he  has  been  duped,  he  thinks, 
by  the  fair  unknown.  But  why  has  not  Barker  kept  his 
agreement?  A  nice  sort  of  a  shadow  if  he  cannot  fol 
low  as  striking-looking  a  woman  as  "Mrs.  Winthrop/' 
But  stay!  Perhaps  she  has  given  a  fictitious  name,  but 
is  actually  stopping  at  the  Kensington  after  all.  Barker 
could  not  have  slipped  upon  a  simple  matter  like  that. 

Abstractedly  twirling  his  glove,  Jack  leans  over  the 
desk  and  says  in  a  low  tone  to  the  clerk,  an  old  acquaint 
ance:  "Is  there  a  rather  striking-looking  young  woman, 
with  dark  eyes  and  midnight  hair,  stopping  at  the  house?" 

The  clerk  smiles. 

"Sorry,  Jack,  but  you  are  too  late,  I'm  afraid.  The 
beautiful  Mrs.  Harding  left  at  9  o'clock,  bag  and  bag 
gage." 

Ashley  turns  thoughtfully  away  and  repairs  to  the 
reading-room  for  a  quiet  think.  So  her  name — for  the 
present  at  least — is  Mrs.  Harding.  But  where  is  Barker? 
The  detective  is  probably  shadowing  Mrs.  Harding  now. 
Ashley  concludes  that  there  is  nothing  for  him  to  do  but 


THE  PENALTY  OF  PROCRASTINATION.  151 

await  Barker's  return.  He  has  been  on  the  watch  barely 
half  an  hour  when  the  detective  swings  himself  from  a 
cable  car  in  front  of  the  hotel. 

"Well?"  is  Jack's  impatient  salutation  as  he  leads  the 
way  to  a  retired  corner  of  the  reading-room. 

Barker  is  not  in  exuberant  spirits;  his  brows  are 
knitted  in  a  frown  and  he  is  nervously  biting  his  mus 
tache. 

"Well,  she  has  gone — left  town,  and  is  apparently  en 
route  from  the  country — for  Cuba,  I  believe." 

"For  Cuba!''  and  Jack  stares  at  the  detective  in  mild 
amaze.  Verily,  either  a  most  remarkable  series  of 
coincidences  or  the  tangled  threads  of  the  Raymond 
mystery  are  pointing  unmistakably  to  the  fair  isle  of  the 
Antilles. 

"Yes,  for  Cuba.  Let  me  impress  it  upon  your  mind 
in  the  beginning  that  Mrs.  Isabel  Harding — that's  the 
name  she  is  sailing  under — is  no  ordinary  woman.  Why 
— but  to  begin  at  the  beginning.  According  to  our 
understanding  last  night,  I  followed  her  to  this  hotel, 
where  I  found  she  was  actually  stopping.  I  naturally 
concluded  that  she  made  the  engagement  with  you  in 
good  faith,  else  she  would  have  given  another  hotel." 

"She  did  give  me  a  fictitious  name,"  breaks  in  Jack. 
"Or,  rather,  she  led  me  to  believe  that  her  name  was  still 
Winthrop." 

"Did  she?  Well,  that  was  useless.  Anyhow,  I  de 
cided  to  stop  here  last  night,  to  be  on  guard  early  this 
morning.  I  found  that  my  lady  had  breakfasted  early. 
This  made  me  suspicious  and  I  kept  close  watch  of  her. 
Shortly  after  9  o'clock  she  settled  her  bill  at  the  hotel  and 
with  her  trunks  was  driven  to  the  Jersey  City  ferry.  Of 
course  I  followed.  At  the  Pennsylvania  depot  she  was 
joined  by  a  foreign-looking  chap — Spaniard.  Quite  a 
distinguished-looking  duffer.  If  you  should  ever  run 
across  him  you  will  know  him  by  ^a  small,  crescent- 
shaped  scar  on  his  left  cheek.  I  was  successful  in  getting 
close  enough  to  them  to  hear  some  of  the  conversation. 
It  appeared  from  their  talk,  Ashley,  that  your  Mrs.  Hard 
ing  is,  in  addition  to  her  other  accomplishments,  a  spy 


152  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

in  the  pay  of  the  Spanish  Government,  and  that  she  has 
been  successful  in  learning  some  of  the  secret  plans  and 
plots  of  the  Cuban  filibusters  in  this  city.  She  is  now 
on  her  way  to  Port  Tampa  aboard  the  Florida  limited, 
and  I  should  judge  it  is  their  intention  to  proceed  from 
Key  West  at  once  to  Havana." 

"Their  intention?  Did  the  Spanish  officer  accompany 
her?" 

Barker  nods.  "He  looked  as  if  he  was  right  out  of 
the  hospital;  his  head  was  bandaged.  Perhaps  some  of 
the  Cuban  sympathizers  had  it  out  with  him.  However, 
that  episode  is  closed,  for  the  present  at  least.  And  now 
for  Cyrus  Felton.  I  shall  take  him  directly  to  the  Tombs, 
and  according  to  our  compact  he  will  be  invisible  to  any 
of  the  newspaper  fraternity.  Will  you  come  with  me  to 
the  St.  James  while  I  nab  the  bird?" 

Ashley  starts.  He  has  for  a  moment  forgotten  the 
catastrophe  that  is  about  to  overcome  Cyrus  Felton.  He 
looks  at  his  watch.  "I  am  overdue  at  the  office,"  he 
says.  "But  say,  Barker,  I  had  an  engagement  to  lunch 
with  Felton  and  Miss  Hathaway  at  i  o'clock.  Can't  you 
put  off  the  arrest  until  to-morrow?" 

Barker  shakes  his  head.  "Not  a  minute,"  he  replies, 
emphatically.  "I  have  delayed  long  enough.  If  you 
intended  to  lunch  with  the  fair  Miss  Hathaway  you  will 
have  an  opportunity  to  do  so  just  the  same  and  your 
presence  will  doubtless  be  appreciated  in  her  tremendous 
confusion.  If  you  can't  come  with  me  I  will  drop  round 
at  the  office  and  see  you  later." 

"All  right,  then.  Do  the  job  in  as  gentlemanly  a  man 
ner  as  possible,"  grins  Ashley. 

Barker  nods  and  walks  rapidly  toward  the  St.  James, 
while  Ashley  boards  a  Broadway  car  and  rolls  downtown. 

The  detective  saunters  up  to  the  hotel  office  desk, 
writes  the  name  "Cyrus  Felton"  on  a  bit  of  cardboard, 
and,  passing  it  to  the  clerk,  inquires:  "Is  that  gentle 
man  in?" 

"No,  sir;  gone.     Left  an  hour  ago." 

"When  will  he  return?" 

"Well,   that's   rather  beyond  me,"  smiles   the  clerk. 


THE  CRUISER  AMERICA.  153 

"Mr.  Felton  and  a  lady  sailed  this  morning  for  Cuba, 
on  the  City  of  Havana.  I  assume  that  they  did.  They 
were  driven  from  here  to  the  pier." 

"What  time  does  the  steamer  sail?"  asks  Barker,  taking 
out  his  watch. 

"Eleven  o'clock." 

"Too  late!"  grits  the  detective.  It  is  even  now  five 
minutes  past  the  hour. 

For  a  moment  Barker  permits  his  emotions  to  master 
his  self-possession,  and  he  startles  even  the  debonair 
clerk,  accustomed  as  the  latter  is  to  the  strong  terms 
sometimes  employed  by  irritable  guests. 

His  feelings  relieved  in  a  measure  by  this  unusual  out 
break,  the  detective  sits  down  for  a  moment  to  consider 
the  situation.  Cyrus  Felton,  then,  is  on  his  way  to  Cuba, 
doubtless  to  join  his  son.  Mrs.  Harding,  a  valuable 
quantity  in  the  mystery,  is  also  headed  for  the  Antilles. 
Everything  seems  to  point  to  Cuba.  Barker  picks  up  a 
railroad  timetable. 

"Twelve  m.;  Florida  express  for  Savannah,  Jackson 
ville  and  Port  Tampa,"  he  reads. 

"By  the  gods,  I'll  do  it!"  he  exclaims,  as  he  starts  for 
the  street.  "First  to  the  pier  and  make  sure  that  the 
steamer  has  gone,  and,  if  so,  then  to  Key  West.  I  shall 
be  only  two  hours  behind  the  woman,  and  I  may  reach 
Havana  ahead  of  Felton.  Hi,  there,  cabby!" 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

THE  CRUISER  AMERICA. 

"Jack,  Mr.  Ricker  wants  to  see  you,"  is  the  information 
extended  to  Ashley  when  he  reaches  the  office.  He  re 
ports  at  the  room  of  the  city  editor,  and  that  gentleman 
informs  him  that  he  has  not  arrived  any  too  soon. 

"I  know  that  I  am  an  hour  or  so  behind,  but  I  have 
been  working  up  a  story  that  will  make  interesting  read- 


154  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

ing,"  Ashley  explains.  "What's  up?  My  trial-trip  as 
signment  isn't  until  3,  is  it?" 

"The  start  was  set  for  3,  but  it  has  been  pushed  for 
ward  to  i  o'clock,"  says  Ricker. 

"It  is  about  noon  now.  i  may  as  well  start  for  Brook 
lyn  at  once.  Good,  snappy  day  for  a  run  down  the  bay." 

"Thunder!"  says  Ashley,  when  he  reaches  the  street. 
"I  had  forgotten  that  1  was  booked  for  a  consolatory 
lunch  with  Miss  Hathaway  at  i.  I  must  send  my  re 
grets.  Hang  it,  that  will  look  as  if  I  was  on  to  the 
arrest  and  was  afraid  to  show  up." 

But  he  sends  the  note,  nevertheless,  and  feels  better  in 
mind.  "If  that  cold-blooded  Barker  only  handles  the 
matter  properly,"  he  thinks. 

Even  as  he  reaches  the  Government  dock  Jack  sees  the 
pennant  of  CapL  Meade  run  up  to  the  main  truck  of  the 
cruiser  whose  initial  trial  in  commission  he  is  to  report; 
he  is  none  too  soon  for  the  gang-plank  is  being  with 
drawn  by  half  a  score  of  blue-clad  sailors  as  he  makes  a 
flying  leap  and  lands  upon  the  deck  of  the  newest  and 
fastest  acquisition  to  Uncle  Sam's  navy,  the  cruiser 
America. 

Ere  Jack  has  fully  recovered  his  footing  a  youthful- 
appearing  midshipman  brusquely  demands  his  business. 

It  takes  sometime  before  Jack  is  permitted  to  tread 
the  sacred  precincts  of  the  quarter-deck. 

Capt.  Meade  is  for  the  time  being  on  the  bridge,  and, 
before  making  the  acquaintance  of  the  commander,  Jack 
proceeds  to  look  about  the  vessel. 

The  America  has  an  air  of  being  a  ship  made  for 
getting  there;  an  up-to-date  cruiser,  without  frills  and 
furbelows,  but  distinctively  with  an  aspect  of  power.  In 
the  bright  sunlight  her  snowy  hull  gleams  like  polished 
marble.  Her  four  great  smokestacks  relieve  in  a  meas 
ure  the  glaring  effect  of  her  big  white  bulk,  while  the 
polished  brass  and  steel  with  which  all  the  decks  are  gird- 
ironed  suggest,  without  the  presence  of  the  murderous 
rapid-fire  and  revolving  cannon  stationed  about  the 
decks,  that  the  vessel  is  designed  for  war. 

Ashley  is  soon  engaged  in  the  collection  of  information 


THE  CRUISER  AMERICA.  155 

regarding  the  America  for  the  benefit  of  Hemisphere 
readers.  The  cruiser  is,  the  second  officer  informs  him, 
of  over  7,000  tons  displacement.  Her  battery  comprises 
two  six-inch,  4O-caliber  rapid-fire  guns,  one  on  each  side, 
forward  of  the  superstructure;  one  eight-inch,  4O-caliber 
on  the  center  line,  abaft  the  superstructure;  eight  four- 
inch  rapid-fire  guns  in  armored  sponsons  on  the  gun- 
deck,  four  on  each  side;  six-pounder  rapid-fire  guns, 
four-pounders,  one-pounders,  Catlings  and  torpedo  tubes 
galore. 

"There  are  three  vertical,  triple-expansion  engines, 
each  set  driving  a  separate  screw.  The  propellers  are 
of  manganese  bronze  and  the " 

"Thank  you,  that  is  sufficient,  I  guess,"  interrupts  Jack. 
"The  Hemisphere  readers  will  have  a  very  good  idea  of 
the  offensive  and  defensive  power  of  the  America  now, 
I  am  sure." 

The  cruiser  is  slowly  backing  out  into  the  stream. 
There  is  a  big  throng  on  the  pier  to  watch  her  departure, 
and  a  whole  battery  of  cameras  are  leveled  as  she  finally 
swings  around. 

Now  the  ship  becomes  indeed  instinct  with  life  and  is 
pointing  down  the  bay  with  a  speed  that  augurs  well  for 
the  shattering  of  records.  The  whistles  of  all  the  craft 
in  sight  screech  a  salute  and  the  America's  hoarse  whistle 
bellows  responsively.  Past  the  Battery  and  Governor's 
Island  she  speeds  and  then,  fairly  by  quarantine,  the 
patent  log  is  cast  into  the  foamy  wake  and  Capt.  Meade 
rings  "full  speed." 

The  speed  trial  of  the  America  has  actually  begun. 

Jack  is  idly  watching  the  rapidly  receding  island,  when 
he  becomes  aware  by  the  slight  bustle  on  the  quarterdeck 
that  the  commander  of  the  America  has  returned  from 
the  bridge. 

Capt.  Meade,  or  "Fighting  Dave,"  as  he  is  affection 
ately  designated  in  naval  circles,  is  a  man  of  about  60 
years,  but  forty-five  years  of  his  eventful  career  have  been 
spent  in  the  navy.  He  has  worked  himself  up,  without 
political  or  social  influence,  from  apprentice  boy  to  com- 


156  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

mander  of  the.  newest  and  best  cruiser  in  the  United 
States. 

Jack  has  heard  of  "Fighting  Dave,"  and  he  scans  the 
famous  naval  officer  with  much  interest  A  figure 
slightly  below  the  average,  but  stockily  built;  a  cheer 
ful  visage,  face  weather-beaten  and  innocent  of  beard, 
surmounted  by  a  shock  of  grizzly  hair;  eyes  whose  keen 
expression  might  well  belie  the  jovial  look  upon  the  face 
— this  is  Capt.  David  Meade,  U.  S.  N. 

"Good  face,"  thinks  Ashley,  as  he  completes  his 
scrutiny.  "I  should  like  to  know  Capt.  Meade  personally, 
and  I  will." 

With  his  customary  assurance  and  easy  grace  Ashley 
approaches  the  autocrat  of  the  quarterdeck  and  tenders 
his  card. 

Capt.  Meade  glances  at  the  pasteboard  and  then  his 
keen  eyes  wander  to  the  newspaper  man.  Apparently 
the  scrutiny  is  satisfactory,  for  the  bronzed  face  wrinkles 
into  the  most  benign  of  smiles  and  a  tremendous  fist 
grasps  Jack's  right  hand  with  a  grip  which  causes  him 
to  mentally  question  his  ability  to  write  up  the  trial  trip, 
or  anything  else,  for  a  week  at  least. 

"So  you  are  from  the  Hemisphere?"  Capt.  Meade  ob 
serves.  "Well,  I  like  that  paper  and  one  of  its  repre 
sentatives  is  heartily  welcome  to  my  ship.  In  these  days 
of  sentiment  and  gush  and  peace  and  good-will  and 
brotherly  love,  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth,  it  does  my 
heart  good  to  get  hold  of  a  paper  which  isn't  afraid  nor 
ashamed  to  speak  right  out  in  meetin'  for  the  land  we  live 
in  and  the  flag  that  floats  above  it.  But  come  below,  Mr. 
Ashley,  and  we'll  clinch  the  sentiment  with  a  toast."  And 
the  captain  leads  the  way  to  his  sumptuous  quarters, 
where  the  "splicing  of  the  main  brace"  is  accomplished 
with  alacrity  and  vigor  by  commander  and  newspaper 
man. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  the  America?"  asks  the 
captain.  "Did  you  ever  see  anything  like  that  on  a 
vessel  going  over  twenty  knots  an  hour?"  setting  his 
glass,  filled  to  the  brim,  on  the  table.  The  surface  of 
the  liquid  is  scarce  more  ruffled  than  that  of  a  mirror. 


THE  CRUISER  AMERICA.  157 

"No  sign  of  vibration,  eh?  She  stands  up  as  steady  as 
a  house." 

Jack  is  really  surprised  as  he  considers  the  circum 
stances.  "From  what  little  I  have  seen  of  her  I  should 
say  she  is  a  remarkable  craft  and  one  that  Uncle  Sam 
should  feel  proud  of,"  he  replies. 

"Remarkable?  She's  a  wonder!  Why,  she  can  walk 
away  from  anything  that  floats — anything,  big  or  little, 
torpedo  catchers  or  stilettos.  I  was  on  her  when  her 
first  trial  trip  with  the  builders  aboard  took  place,  and 
while  she  made  twenty-five  knots  then,  she  can  do  better. 
And  she  is  going  to  do  it  to-day.  Before  we  reach 
Sandy  Hook,  young  man,  you  can  just  put  it  down  in 
your  log-book  that  the  American  flag  is  being  borne  over 
the  water  faster  than  any  other  flag  is  likely  to  be  carried 
for  some  time.  One  more  splice  and  then  we'll  show 
you  how  the  trick  is  done." 

As  the  captain  and  his  guest  return  to  the  quarterdeck 
of  the  cruiser  it  is  apparent  that  something  unusual  is 
attracting  the  attention  of  officers  and  crew.  Those  who 
are  not  actively  engaged  in  the  manipulation  of  the 
cruiser  are  gathered  at  the  port  rail  watching  intently  a 
steamer  that  is  running  parallel  with  the  America,  about 
an  eighth  of  a  mile  distant  and  about  three  lengths  astern. 

"What  is  it,  Mr.  Jones?"  inquires  Capt  Meade  of  the 
third  officer,  who  has  just  removed  the  binocular  glasses 
from  his  eyes. 

"A  strange  craft,  sir,  evidently  a  yacht  which  is  ap 
parently  using  the  America  as  a  pacemaker.  She  pulled 
up  astern  of  us  fifteen  minutes  ago,  and  has  since  been 
steadily  gaining.  Very  fast,  sir,  I  should  say,  but  she 
bears  no  ensign  or  pennant  of  any  kind." 

Capt.  Meade  takes  the  glasses  from  the  hands  of  his 
subaltern  and  looks  long  and  critically  at  the  strange 
vessel.  She  is  nearly  the  same  length  as  the  America, 
though  manifestly  of  considerable  less  tonnage.  And 
she  is  painted  black,  without  a  bit  of  gay  color  from  stem 
to  stern  to  relieve  the  somberness  of  her  hull. 

Two  black  smokestacks,  that  appear  unusually  large 
and  are  set  at  a  decidedly  rakish  angle,  are  relieved  by 


158  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

two  narrow  bands  of  white.  Capt.  Meade  with  a  sea 
man's  appreciative  eye  admires  the  shapely  lines  of  the 
yacht,  but  as  his  practiced  vision  notices  the  comparative 
ease  with  which  she  is  creeping  up  on  the  America  his 
jovial  face  becomes  slightly  troubled. 

"Mr.  Jones,  have  the  log  taken  and  work  out  our  speed 
at  once,"  he  orders. 

"Twenty-four  and  a  quarter  knots,"  is  the  report. 

For  the  next  ten  minutes  the  captain  watches  intently 
the  strange  yacht.  Her  course  is  apparently  shaped  pre 
cisely  parallel  with  that  of  the  America,  and  she  still 
continues  to  gain,  inch  by  inch,  upon  the  white  cruiser. 
Now  she  is  amidships,  and  now  the  two  vessels  are  on 
even  terms. 

A  puff  of  white  steam  rises  abaft  the  stranger's  big 
smokestacks,  and  a  long  shrill  whistle  salutes  the  cruiser. 

'Tis  a  challenge  for  a  race  and  it  stirs  Capt.  Meade's 
blood  to  fever  heat.  He  sends  for  the  chief  engineer. 

"How  is  the  machinery  working?"  he  inquires. 

"Finely,  sir;  not  the  sign  of  the  slightest  trouble  any 
where." 

"Very  well,  sir;  we  will  begin  now  to  push  her  for  a 
record.  Put  on  every  ounce  of  steam  she  will  stand, 
first  with  natural  and  afterward  with  forced  draught." 

The  chief  engineer  salutes,  and  returns  to  his  domain, 
and  a  second  later  the  hoarse  whistle  of  the  America 
sounds  a  defiant  acceptance  of  the  challenge  of  the  black 
yacht. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
GREAT  RACE  TO  THE  OCEAN. 

"By  Jove!  I  had  no  idea  the  captain  had  so  much 
sporting  blood  in  his  veins,"  murmurs  Jack  Ashley  to 
himself,  as  he  watches  alternately  the  challenging  craft 
and  the  America.  "It  is  a  race  fit  for  a  king's  delectation. 
I  wonder  whose  yacht  that  is.  I  don't  remember 


GREAT  RACE  TO  THE  OCEAN.         159 

seeing  her  described  in  any  of  the  papers,  as  she  certainly 
would  have  been  if  she  were  owned  in  New  York.  She 
is  a  big  one,  and  a  beauty,  too.  And  swift  as  the  wind ! 
But  she  doesn't  seem  to  be  gaining  now.  No,  by 
Jupiter!  We  are  gaining  on  her!  The  America  has 
struck  her  gait  at  last!  But  that's  a  game  craft  there. 
She  sticks  to  us  like  a  leech  and  refuses  to  be  shaken 
off.  Ah!" 

The  impromptu  race  has  been  in  progress  nearly  half 
an  hour,  and  the  two  vessels,  still  less  than  an  eighth 
of  a  mile  apart,  are  gradually  drawing  nearer  each  other. 
It  is  apparent  that  the  yacht  is  determined  to  continue 
the  race  at  closer  range,  and  has  changed  her  course  for 
that  purpose.  Meanwhile  the  big  cruiser  has  held  to  her 
original  course,  and  as  the  yacht  straightens  away  for 
another  parallel  run  she  has  lost  her  former  advantage 
and  the  two  vessels  are  practically  on  even  terms. 

It  is  a  battle  royal! 

The  white  cruiser  is  cleaving  the  water  with  tre 
mendous  speed,  her  bow  sending  the  spray  curling  nearly 
as  high  as  her  armored  top,  while  the  waves  astern  are 
churned  by  her  triple  screws  into  a  foam  that  extends 
as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  The  roaring  of  her  furnaces 
is  audible  above  the  whir  of  the  machinery  and  the 
whistling  of  the  wind  through  the  rigging.  From  her 
three  great  smokestacks  steadily  increasing  masses  of 
inky  smoke  trail  out  above  the  snowy  wake. 

All  eyes  on  the  deck  of  the  cruiser  are  riveted  on  the 
yacht.  For  a  short  space  of  time  it  looks  as  if  both  ves 
sels  might  be  propelled  by  the  same  power,  so  even  are 
their  relative  positions.  Then,  to  the  practical  eyes 
aboard  the  cruiser,  it  is  apparent  that  the  America  is 
drawing  ahead,  slowly  to  be  sure,  and  imperceptibly  to 
the  untrained  eye,  but  still  gaining. 

A  dozen  yards,  a  quarter  length,  a  half,  a  clear  length 
ahead! 

A  hearty  cheer  is  trembling  on  the  lips  of  the  crew 
of  the  cruiser,  but  it  is  not  uttered.  The  race  is  stiil  un 
finished,  the  victory  still  hangs  in  the  balance. 

Like  a  thoroughbred  that  has  been  feeling  her  antag- 


160  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

onist,  the  yacht  now  seems  to  respond  to  some  unde 
veloped  power.  The  cruiser  gains  no  more — she  is 
losing  her  advantage.  The  watchers  on  the  quarter 
deck  of  the  America  can  see  the  black  prow  lessening  the 
open  water  that  separates  the  two  craft.  Now  her  bow 
laps  the  stern  of  the  America,  but  not  for  long.  She  is 
overhauling  the  cruiser  faster  now,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
— seconds,  it  seems  to  the  anxious  spectators  on  tire 
latter  vessel — she  is  abeam  of  the  America. 

Out  beyond  Sandy  Hook,  where  the  billows  flash  into 
curving  crests  like  the  manes  of  wild  horses,  a  great  fleet 
has  gathered  to  watch  the  race  against  time  of  the  famous 
warship.  Instead  it  is  their  privilege  to  witness  a  race 
between  two  of  the  swiftest  sea  hounds  ever  unleashed 
on  the  trail  of  the  wind. 

Through  the  impromptu  armada  the  racers  speed  over 
the  toppling  seas.  A  thousand  glasses  are  upon  them. 
What  does  it  mean?  The  white  cruiser  all  may  recog 
nize,  but  her  sable-hul'led  consort,  what  is  she?  Straight 
out  from  staff  and  halyards  the  wind  whips  the  flag  and 
ensigns  of  the  America,  but  neither  ensign  nor  flag  does 
the  strange  steamship  show,  and  except  for  the  great 
white  wake  that  trails  behind  her  she  might  be  a  phantom 
ship,  another  Flying  Dutchman. 

But  ere  the  "reviewing  stand"  recovers  from  its  first 
surprise,  both  craft  are  miles  away,  black  bow  and  white 
bow  piling  over  hills  of  foam  like  sleighs  over  snowdrifts 
and  the  surge  that  goes  sobbing  along  the  glistening 
sides  of  the  cruiser,  inaudible  above  the  roar  of  her 
mighty  engines,  sounds,  like  the  weeping  for  a  lost  race. 

For  the  black  hull  is  bow  and  bow  with  the  white,  as, 
after  a  long  and  critical  survey  of  the  yacht  from  the 
bridge,  Capt.  Meade  descends  to  the  deck  and  summons 
the  chief  engineer. 

"Everything  is  working  finely,  sir,"  that  official  reports. 
"We  are  steaming  the  extreme  limit  under  natural 
draught.  Shall  we  try  the  forced  now,  sir?" 

Capt.  Meade  hesitates  and  again  gazes  long  at  the  yacht. 
The  latter  has  now  a  clear  length  of  open  water  to  the 
good  and  her  stern  is  presented  squarely  in  view  for  the 


GREAT  RACE  TO  THE  OCEAN.  161 

first  time.  The  single  word  Semiramis  is  inscribed  there 
on  in  gold  letters.  But  no  port  is  designated. 

"The  Semiramis,"  murmurs  the  commander  of  the 
America.  "I  never  heard  of  the  craft  before,  but  her 
name  will  be  on  every  man's  lips  before  long,  I'll  wager." 
Then  to  the  chief  engineer:  "Yes,  put  on  the  forced 
draught." 

Jack  Ashley  wipes  the  marine  glasses  with  which  the 
thoughtfulness  of  the  second  officer  has  provided  him, 
and  turns  them  again  toward  the  afterdeck  of  the  yacht. 

"Well,  may  I  be  keelhauled,  or  some  other  equally 
condign  nautical  punishment,"  he  mutters,  after  a  long 
look.  "If  that  isn't  Louise  Hathaway,  seated  in  a 
steamer  chair,  then  do  my  optics  play  me  strange  pranks. 
But  what  is  she  doing  on  the  deck  of  that  yacht?  She 
appears  to  be  alone;  at  least  there  is  no  other  lady 
passenger  on  deck.  Ah,  there  is  Mr.  Felton.  So  Barker 
was  too  late.  Felton  and  Miss  Hathaway  must  be  the 
guests  of  the  gay  yachtsman  who  is  making  ducks  and 
drakes  of  the  America  on  her  trial  trip. 

"Thunder  and  Mars !"  cries  the  newspaper  man,  nearly 
dropping  the  glasses  to  the  deck.  "Phillip  Van  Zandt! 
He  is  apparently  the  owner  of  the  yacht.  Good  heavens! 
What  irony  of  fate  brings  together  those  two  participants 
in  the  Raymond  tragedy.  For  Van  Zandt  is  Ernest 
Stanley,  I  will  swear  it 

"Well,  as  the  novelists  say,  the  plot  thickens.  How 
did  Van  Zandt  ingratiate  himself  into  the  good  graces 
of  Cyrus  Felton?  It  must  have  been  recently,  for  Miss 
Hathaway  spoke  as  if  they  had  no  friends  in  the  city. 
Hang  it  all!  I  don't  just  fancy  the  situation.  How 
assiduously  he  is  waiting  upon  her  now!  Heigho,  Jack! 
I  think  I  would  as  soon  have  reported  this  trial  trip  from 
the  deck  of  the  Semiramis."  At  which  thought  Ashley 
impatiently  pitches  over  the  rail  the  remains  of  one  of 
Capt.  Meade's  favorite  brand  of  cigars. 

The  black  plumes  of  smoke  that  pour  from  the  chim 
neys  of  the  America  are  becoming  denser  and  larger. 
The  forced  draught  is  now  fully  in  operation,  and  in  the 


162  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

boiler-rooms  the  half-naked  stokers  ceaselessly  feed  the 
greedy  fires. 

The  cruiser  has  reached  the  limit  of  her  speed. 

How  is  it  with  the  Semiramis? 

For  a  time  the  America  seems  to  hold  her  own  and 
even  to  gain  slightly.  But  the  advantage  is  transitory. 
The  yacht  still  apparently  has  speed  in  reserve.  Once 
more  she  leaps  forward  and  not  again  is  opportunity 
afforded  the  America's  people  to  view  her  gleaming 
sides. 

For  another  hour  both  vessels  are  driven  at  their 
highest  speed.  The  Semiramis  continues  to  gain  upon 
the  America,  and  is  now  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead. 

Half  an  hour  later  Capt.  Meade  sees  a  flag  run  up  to 
the  masthead  of  the  vanishing  yacht.  He  gives  an  order 
and  the  cruiser's  forward  gun  booms  a  salute. 

"What  do  you  make  of  that  ensign,  Mr.  Smith?"  in 
quires  the  commander,  turning  to  the  second  officer. 

"A  strange  flag,  sir,  not  the  flag  of  any  nation  that  I 
recall,"  is  the  reply. 

"Ah,  I  have  it,"  suddenly  exclaims  the  captain.  "Well, 
she  is  a  great  craft  and  magnificently  handled.  The 
America  made  a  gallant  fight  against  odds  and  lost;  but 
you  can  say,  Mr.  Ashley,"  as  that  individual  ascends  the 
steps  to  the  bridge,  "that  the  America  has  broken  all 
records  in  the  navies  of  the  world,  and  for  two  con 
secutive  hours  has  exceeded  twenty-seven  knots  an  hour. 
Yonder  craft  has  beaten  that  time,  but  she  has  not  the 
heavy  armament  of  the  America." 

"What  was  the  ensign  she  ran  up  a  moment  ago, 
captain?''  Ashley  asks. 

"That,  sir/'  replies  Capt.  Meade,  "was  the  flag  of  Cuba 
Libre,  the  emblem  of  the  sometime  republic  of  the 
Antilles!" 


ASHLEY  LAGS  SUPERFLUOUS.  163 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

ASHLEY  LAGS   SUPERFLUOUS. 

"If  she  is  the  property  of  the  revolutionists,  gentlemen, 
with  her  phenomenal  speed  she  can  run  the  strictest 
blockade  the  Spaniards  can  institute,  can  land  arms,  am 
munition  and  re-enforcements  at  will,  and  practically 
snap  her  ringers  at  the  whole  Spanish  navy." 

The  speaker  is  Capt.  Meade  and  the  place  the  officers' 
mess  table  on  board  the  America.  Naturally  the  one 
topic  of  conversation  is  the  strange  yacht  and  her  re 
markable  performance. 

"Yes,"  continues  the  captain,  impressively,  "I  believe 
that  the  result  of  the  insurrection  may  hang  on  the  fate 
of  that  steamer.  My  sympathies  as  an  individual,  I  do  not 
hesitate  to  say,  are  with  the  rebels.  But  my  duty  as  an 
officer  impels  me  to  notify  the  War  Department  of  the 
departure  of  the  Semiramis  and  the  flaunting  of  the 
Cuban  flag.  However,  I  hardly  think  the  warning  will 
harm  her,  even  if  it  should  set  the  entire  Spanish  navy 
in  pursuit." 

"Do  you  think  the  yacht  is  bound  for  Cuba  now?" 
inquires  Ashley,  with  an  unpleasant  sensation  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  fifth  rib. 

"Certainly.  She  is  apparently  coaled  and  equipped 
for  a  long  voyage.  She  set  low  enough  in  the  water  to 
carry  quite  a  cargo,  too.  Oh,  yes;  she  is  off  for  the 
West  Indies  sure  enough." 

Ashley  relapses  into  a  reverie  and  the  burden  of  his 
thoughts  is  something  like  this:  "Louise  Hathaway, 
Cyrus  Felton  and  this  mysterious  Van  Zandt  on  the  same 
steamer  and  bound  for  Cuba!  How  and  why?"  He 
mechanically  pulls  at  his  cigar.  Finally,  as  the  signal 
for  breaking  up  of  the  dinner  party  is  given  by  the  com 
mander,  he  murmurs:  "What  will  John  Barker  say?" 

The  America  has  completed  her  run;  and  now,  her 
officers  and  the  naval  experts  aboard  having  expressed 


164  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

their  satisfaction  with  her  performance,  the  cruiser  is 
steaming  back  to  her  dock.  The  shrill  salutes  of  the 
many  steam  craft  in  the  harbor  greet  the  ears  of  Ashley 
as  he  accompanies  the  officers  to  the  deck.  The  sun  is 
shining  in  a  haze  of  cold  gray.  The  March  air,  a  few 
hours  ago  so  clear  and  warm,  is  dull  and  marrow- 
piercing.  Ashley  shivers  and  buttons  his  coat  more 
closely  about  him. 

A  few  moments  more,  and  the  cruiser  is  slowing  down 
preparatory  to  making  her  pier,  and  Jack  seeks  Capt. 
Meade  to  express  his  thanks.  The  latter  shakes  his 
hand  cordially  and  remarks:  "Better  come  on  our  next 
cruise,  my  boy;  we  may  have  another  try  at  the  black 
yacht.  The  navy  expert  says  it  was  rumored  in  official 
circles  that  if  this  trial  was  satisfactory  the  America  is  to 
be  ordered  immediately  to  Cuba  to  protect  American 
interests.  Good  news,  if  true,  eh?" 

Ashley  allows  that  if  the  captain  says  it  is  good  news, 
good  news  it  certainly  must  be;  and  a  half-defined  hope 
is  forming  in  his  mind  as  he  steps  once  more  on  terra 
firma. 

"After  I  turn  in  my  story  on  the  trial  trip  I  shall  pro 
ceed  to  hunt  up  some  possible  light  on  the  latest  twist 
in  the  Hathaway  tangle,"  he  meditates,  as  he  sets  his 
face  toward  the  lights  of  Gotham  town.  "Felton  and 
Miss  Hathaway  were  booked  to  sail  on  the  City  of  Callao 
on  Saturday;  yet  I  discover  them  to-day  headed  south 
ward  on  the  Semiramis.  Miss  Hathaway  must  have  left 
some  explanation,  and  it  is  barely  possible  that  Barker 
may  know  something  about  the  sudden  departure.  I 
should  not  be  a  particle  surprised  if  John,  too,  were 
aboard  the  Semiramis.  Nothing  will  ever  surprise  me 
again.  But  if  Barker  got  left  I  shall  probably  find  him 
sitting  on  the  steps  of  the  Hemisphere  office,  in  a  state 
of  mind  bordering  on  the  profane." 

But  fate  decrees  that  many  days  shall  elapse  ere  the 
detective  and  his  newspaper  friend  again  clasp  each  other 
by  the  hand;  days  big  with  exciting  events  that  the 
serene  Ashley  dreams  not  of  as  he  saunters  down  News 
paper  Row. 


ASHLEY  LAGS  SUPERFLUOUS.  165 

From  his  box  in  the  office  Ashley  extracts  a  letter, 
evidently  hastily  written  and  sealed.  The  address  is  in 
Barker's  handwriting,  and  Ashley  tears  it  open.  He 
reads : 

"My  Dear  Ashley:  I  start  for  Cuba  at  12  o'clock  via  Key 
West.  Write  this  just  before  the  train  starts.  Felton  has  elud 
ed  ine — thanks  to  your  infernal  French  ball — and  sailed  for 
Cuba  on  City  of  Havana  at  11  o'clock.  Don't  know  whether 
he  got  wind  of  contemplated  arrest  or  not.  If  I  have  good 
luck  at  Key  West  will  be  in  H.  as  soon  as  he.  May  trail  him 
to  the  son  and  bag  both  at  once.  In  any  event,  do  not  intend 
to  lose  sight  of  him  again  till  he  is  safely  landed  in  Vermont. 
I  may  run  across  your  Mrs.  Harding,  and  if  I  do  will  try  my 
luck  at  making  her  tell  what  she  knows  of  young  Felton,  on 
threat  of  exposing  her  as  a  Spanish  spy.  Good  scheme,  eh? 
Must  close,  train  starting;  will  write  from  Cuba,  Hastily, 

"Barker." 

"So  Cuba  is  to  be  the  scene  of  the  next  act  of  the 
Raymond  tragedy,"  Jack  thinks.  "How  suddenly  all  the 
characters  have  betaken  themselves  to  the  southern  isle, 
and  how  events  have  crowded  on  each  other  the  last  day 
or  two !  First,  news  that  young  Felton  is  in  Cuba ;  then 
appear  Cyrus  Felton  and  Louise  Hathaway  in  the  city; 
then  the  mysterious  woman  of  the  Raymond  Hotel,  and 
the  stranger  of  the  mountain  gorge — and  all  of  these  are 
at  this  moment  en  route  to  Cuba.  Only  Derrick  Ames 
and  Helen  Hathaway  remain  to  be  accounted  for,  and  if 
Barker's  theory  is  correct,  and  they,  too,  are  in  Cuba, 
what  a  situation  and  what  a  complication!  I  must  be 
there  at  the  finish.  The  paper  really  needs  a  war  corre 
spondent  in  the  ever-faithful  isle,  and  I've  half  a  mind  to 
ask  for  the  assignment." 

From  his  desk  Ashley  takes  a  bulky  package  of  manu 
script,  glances  through  it,  and  with  a  sigh  replaces  it 
within  an  inner  compartment.  "The  Raymond  mystery 
story,  the  newspaper  beat  of  the  year,"  is  not  to  be 
used  yet. 

But  the  account  of  the  trial  trip  of  the  America  must 
be  written,  and  soon  the  sheaves  of  yellow  paper  are 
being  rapidly  covered  by  Jack's  flying  pen. 

At  last  it  is  finished,  and  with  a  grunt  of  satisfaction 


166  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

Jack  arranges  the  scattered  sheets  and  proceeds  to  the 
desk  of  the  city  editor. 

"Ah,  Ashley,"  remarks  that  dignitary,  glancing  at  the 
manuscript  and  without  raising  his  eyes;  "trial  trip  was 
a  success,  wasn't  it?  Yes;  well,  I  have  a  little  something 
here  that  I  wish  you  would  look  up.  You  have  done  so 
much  Cuban  stuff  lately  that  you  are  more  familiar  with 
the  ground  than  any  other  man  on  the  staff.  The 
Washington  wire  states  that  a  vessel,  the  Isabel,  that  was 
to  have  sailed  from  here  to-day,  has  been  detained  at  her 
moorings,  foot  of  Twenty-third  Street.  She  is  suspected 
of  having  arms  and  ammunition  for  the  Cuban  rebels  on 
board.  The  information  was  filed  by  the  Spanish  min 
ister.  Just  look  up  the  local  end  of  the  story,  find  out 
who  fitted  out  the  steamer,  where  she  was  ostensibly  to 
clear  for,  etc.  You  had  better  see  your  filibuster  friend, 
Manada.  He  might  give  you  something  on  it" 

"Blast  Cuba!"  mutters  Jack,  as  he  leaves  the  office. 
"Everything  is  Cuba  now.  Talk  about  Tantalus!  His 
case  wasn't  a  marker  to  mine.  Here  are  all  the  charac 
ters  in  a  drama  in  which  I  am  interested  gone  to  Cuba, 
while  I  lag  superfluous  on  the  stage,  doomed  to  write 
up  stuff  about  the  confounded  island  and  its  affairs  at 
long  range.  Besides,  I  haven't  fairly  got  back  my  land 
legs,  and  now  I  must  jaunt  up  the  North  River  two  or 
three  miles.  Well,  there  is  no  use  kicking,  I  suppose. 
Guess  I  will  look  up  Don  Manada  first,  though." 

Ashley's  annoyance  dissipates  rapidly,  however,  and  he 
has  recovered  his  customary  serenity  when  he  tenders  his 
card  to  the  clerk  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel,  to  be  taken 
to  Don  Manada's  rooms. 

"Don  Manada  has  left,  sir"  the  clerk  tells  him.  "He 
had  his  effects  removed  early  this  morning  and  stated 
that  he  might  not  return  for  some  months." 

"Where  has  he  gone,  do  you  know?" 

"To  Cuba,  I  think." 

Jack  turns  away.  "To  Cuba,  of  course.  Everybody 
with  whom  I  have  business  to-day  has  gone  to  Cuba.  If 
that  filibustering  vessel,  the  Isabel,  has  not  eluded  the 
officers  and  sailed  for  Cuba  by  the  time  I  reach  her 


ASHLEY  LAGS  SUPERFLUOUS.        167 

wharf,  I  shall  be. mightily  surprised.  No;  I  have  decided 
to  be  surprised  at  nothing  hereafter.  The  Isabel! 
There's  another  coincidence — the  first  name  of  Mrs. 
Harding  or  Mrs.  Winthrop  or  whatever  it  is — the  woman 
of  the  Raymond  Hotel.  Well,  here  goes  for  the  Isabel." 

It  is  cold,  foggy,  dark  and  altogether  disagreeable  as 
Jack  alights  from  the  car  at  the  foot  of  Twenty-third 
Street  and  picks  his  way  down  the  long  wharf  to  where 
he  is  informed  the  detained  steamer  is  docked.  She  is 
still  there;  he  sees  her  smokestacks  and  masts  outlined 
against  the  sky.  A  single  lantern  is  alight  on  the  vessel, 
but  the  gang-plank  has  been  hauled  in. 

"Steamer  ahoy!"  Ashley  calls,  and  after  several  repe 
titions  of  the  hail  a  gruff  voice  sounds  from  the  gloom 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  lantern. 

"Ashore,  there!    What  do  you  want?" 

"Is  this  the  Isabel?" 

"Yes,''  is  the  brief  reply. 

"Well,  I  want  to  talk  with  you  a  moment.  Can't  you 
run  out  a  plank  and  hold  that  lantern  nearer,  so  I  can  see 
to  come  aboard?  I  am  from  the  Hemisphere." 

There  is  a  moment's  hesitation  and  then  the  lantern 
approaches  the  steamer's  side  and  a  plank  is  extended  to 
the  pier. 

"Now,  all  I  want  to  find  out  is  about  the  alleged  seizure 
of  the  vessel,"  begins  Jack,  thrusting  a  cigar  into  the  fist 
that  releases  the  lantern. 

"There  ain't  much  to  say,"  is  the  reply.  "I  am  a  United 
States  deputy  marshal  and  was  placed  in  charge  of  the 
vessel  this  noon.  Whether  her  cargo  contains  arms  and 
ammunition  I  can't  say  for  sure,  as  she  is  not  to  be 
searched  till  tomorrow,  but  from  the  remarks  dropped  by 
some  of  the  crew  I'll  bet  a  hat  the  cargo  has  been  taken 
off.  One  of  the  crew  was  considerably  under  the  weather 
when  1  came  aboard  and  I  gathered  from  his  talk  that 
some  of  the  Isabel's  cargo  was  shifted  to  another  steamer, 
a  long,  black  craft,  some  time  after  midnight  or  early  this 
morning." 

"What  was  the  name  of  the  other  steamer?''  inquires 
Ashley,  a  sudden  suspicion  entering  his  mind, 


168 


"Blessed  if  I  know,"  replies  the  deputy  marshal. 
"The  Semiramis,  Pll  wager  $4  to  a  nickel,"  mutters 
Ashley,  as  he  thanks  the  marshal  and  goes  ashore. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 
ON  TO  FAIR  CUBA. 

"There  are  only  two  bits  of  evidence  needed  to  com 
plete  my  moral  conviction  that  I  am  the  only  person 
connected  with  the  Raymond  tragedy  who  is  not  in 
Cuba  or  on  his  way  thither,"  remarks  Ashley,  loquitur,  as 
he  boards  a  cross-town  car.  "One  is  the  assurance  that 
Cyrus  Felton  and  Miss  Hathaway  have  left  the  St.  James 
Hotel  with  no  intention  of  an  immediate  return;  the 
other,  the  knowledge  that  Phillip  Van  Zandt  has  closed 
his  quarters  in  the  Wyoming  flats  for  an  indefinite  period. 
I  believe  I  will  try  the  St.  James  first." 

He  does.  The  clerk  smiles  benignly  upon  him  when 
he  inquires  for  the  Vermonters.  "Gone,  Jack;  but  you 
were  not  forgotten,"  he  says.  "The  day  clerk  turned  this 
over  to  me/'  extracting  a  note  from  the  letter  rack. 

"Thank  you,  Ed,"  acknowledges  Ashley.  He  tears 
open  the  note  and  reads: 

"Dear  Mr.  Ashley:  I  regret  very  much  that  circumstances 
have  made  it  necessary  to  postpone  indefinitely  the  luncheon 
for  this  afternoon  at  1,  to  which  I  had  looked  forward  with 
much  pleasure.  We  have  just  learned  that  in  order  to  reach 
Cuba  we  must  sail  on  the  City  of  Havana,  which  leaves  New 
York  at  11  o'clock  to-day.  With  many  thanks  for  your  kind 
nesses,  believe  me,  sincerely  yours,  Louise  Hathaway." 

"Far  from  enlightening  me,  this  note  only  plunges  me 
deeper  in  the  fog,"  thinks  Ashley,  sniffing  the  faint  odor 
of  violet  that  clings  to  the  dainty  stationery.  "She  asserts 
here  that  she  is  going  to  Cuba  on  the  City  of  Havana, 
yet  I  discover  her  aboard  the  Semiramis.  At  any  rate 


ON  TO  FAIR  CUBA.  169 

they  have  gone  to  Cuba,  and  there  is  no  particular  reason 
for  my  visiting  Van  Zandt's  apartments.  It  is  getting 
late,  anyway,  and  I  believe  I  will  return  to  the  office. 
If  Ricker  is  in  a  good-humored  mood  I  will  attempt  to 
convince  him  that  the  only  feature  which  the  paper  at 
present  lacks  is  a  live  man  at  Havana  who  can  tell  the 
difference  between  an  overwhelming  Spanish  or  Cuban 
victory  and  a  fifth-rate  scrimmage  that  a  dozen  New 
York  policemen  could  quell  in  ten  minutes." 

Ashley  swings  himself  upon  a  Broadway  car  and  lapses 
into  a  meditation.  "How  the  deuce  do  Miss  Hathaway 
and  Cyrus  Felton  come  to  be  aboard  the  Semiramis?'' 
And  if  Ernest  Stanley  is  Phillip  Van  Zandt,  where  did  he 
get  the  money  to  own  such  a  yacht?  Forty  or  fifty 
thousand  dollars  of  Raymond  National  Bank  funds 
wouldn't  pay  for  one  side  of  the  Semiramis.  But  it  may 
not  be  his  yacht.  I  have  simply  assumed  so  because  he 
looked  as  if  he  owned  the  ocean  as  well.  Good  gracious, 
I  should  be  inclined  to  regard  Miss  Hathaway's  disap 
pearance  as  a  clear  case  of  abduction  but  for  the  fact 
that  the  fair  Louise  appeared  entirely  satisfied  with  her 
surroundings  when  I  focused  the  America's  glasses  upon 
her  graceful  self.  I  am  beginning  to  believe  that  I  am 
clear  off  my  reckoning  on  Van  Zandt.  The  Semiramis 
may  be  owned  by  the  Cubans  and  he  may  simply  be  one 
of  the  leaders  of  the  expedition.  And  he  may  not  be 
Ernest  Stanley  at  all,  although  I  think — hang  it!  I  don't 
know  what  I  think.  I  shall  quit  thinking  from  now  on. 
It  is  too  hard  work." 

Much  relieved  by  this  determination,  Ashley  sits  at  his 
desk,  lights  his  briar  and  dashes  off  a  short  sketch  of  the 
detained  filibustering  vessel.  This  he  tosses  over  to  the 
night-desk  men,  and  strolls  into  the  city  editor's  den. 

"When  you  are  at  leisure,  Mr.  Ricker,  I  should  like  to 
bore  you  for  five  or  ten  minutes,"  he  announces. 

"I  am  at  leisure  now,  Jack.  Sit  down.  It  has  been  a 
rather  light  night  and  there  is  an  unusual  lull  just  at 
present.  What  is  on  your  mind?'' 

"It  is  something  like  half  a  dozen  years  since  I  began 
work  on  the  paper,  is  it  not?" 


170  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Just  about,  my  son." 

"And  during  that  time  I  have  never  kicked  on  an 
assignment  or  asked  for  any  particular  job." 

"Yes;  if  I  recollect  rightly,  that  is  about  the  size  of 
it,"  remarks  Ricker  dryly.  "Now,  what  can  I  do  for 
you?" 

"I  should  like  the  assignment  of  war  correspondent  at 
Havana." 

The  city  editor  is  silent  for  a  moment. 

"I  am  sorry  you  did  not  speak  of  this  Havana  business 
before,"  he  says,  encircling  the  pastepot  with  a  ring  of 
smoke.  "Unfortunately  I  have  mapped  out  two  or  three 
months'  work  for  you  at  a  place  a  good  many  miles  from 
the  capital  of  Cuba." 

Ashley's  face  does  not  reveal  the  disappointment  he 
feels. 

"All  right,  Mr.  Ricker,  I  have  no  kick  coming.  I  will 
break  another  one  of  my  rules  and  ask  what  the  assign 
ment  is  before  I  have  been  notified  of  it." 

"It  is  an  important  mission,  my  son,  and  the  selection 
of  the  man  to  fill  the  palace  does  not  come  within  my  de 
partment.  But  as  a  good  man  was  needed  I  urged  the 
desirability  of  putting  you  on  the  job." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  murmurs  Ashley. 

"I  intended  to  communicate  to  you  his  wishes  to 
night,"  resumes  Ricker.  "In  fact,  I  received  the  assign 
ment  for  you  an  hour  ago  and  you  would  have  found  it 
in  your  box  in  the  morning."  The  city  editor  tosses  over 
a  yellow  envelope  and  Ashley  finds  therein  the  brief  notifi 
cation  : 

"Beginning  March  18,  Mr.  Ashley  will  enter  upon  the 
duties  as  war  correspondent  at  Santiago  de  Cuba." 

Ashley  looks  up  and  catches  the  indulgent  smile  of  his 
chief. 

"Ricker,  you're  a  jewel,"  he  says,  warmly,  extending 
his  hand.  The  friendship  between  the  two  men  has  long 
since  leveled  the  wall  of  official  dignity. 

"I  had  no  idea  you  wanted  the  job,"  smiles  the  city 
editor. 

"Until  to-day  I  had  no  desire  to  visit  Cuba,"  replies 


ON  TO  FAIR  CUBA.  171 

Ashley.  "But  at  present  I  want  to  go  the  worst  way — or 
the  best  way.  And  my  wish  to  reach  Cuban  soil  is  not 
greatly  influenced  by  personal  reasons,  either.  I  expect 
some  day  to  turn  over  to  you  a  story  that  will  cover  a 
good  share  of  the  first  page  and  just  now  the  trail  is 
winding  under  the  flags  of  three  nations — 'Spain,  Cuba 
and  the  United  States.  But  why  Santiago,  instead  of 
Havana?" 

"For  the  reason  that,  as  you  may  see  by  a  look  over 
to-night's  telegrams,  the  eastern  province  of  Cuba  is 
likely  to  be  the  principal  theater  of  the  struggle  for  inde 
pendence.  You  know  the  sort  of  stuff  we  want.  State 
ments  of  fact,  above  all.  You  may  have  some  difficulty 
in  getting  us  the  facts  by  wire,  as  the  government  con 
trols  the  cables;  but  there  are  the  mails,  and  in  addition 
to  the  usual  grind  you  might  send  a  two  or  three  column 
chatty  letter  every  fortnight  or  so  that  would  be  interest 
ing  reading.  Spend  all  the  money  that  is  necessary.  Get 
right  out  into  the  fighting;  there  isn't  one  chance  in  a 
million  of  your  being  hurt.  Above  all,  send  us  facts. 
We  cannot  pay  too  much  for  facts." 

"Have  you  considered  how  I  am  to  reach  Santiago? 
You  know  there  are  no  steamer  lines  running  to  the 
island." 

"That  has  been  arranged.  The  bulletin  was  received 
early  this  evening  that  the  new  cruiser  America  had  been 
ordered  to  Santiago.  The  managing  editor  used  his  in 
fluence,  and  permission  to  send  a  representative  on  the 
vessel  has  kindly  been  granted.  There  is  some  value  in 
being  on  the  right  side  of  an  administration.  The 
cruiser  sails  the  day  after  to-morrow,  the  i8th." 

Ashley  and  Ricker  soon  complete  -heir  talk  and  Jack 
starts  for  home  in  a  complacent  condition  of  mind.  Ar 
riving  at  his  rooms  he  slips  into  a  dressing-gown  and 
stretches  himself  in  an  easy-chair  for  a  smoke-lined 
night-cap,  and  as  the  rings  curl  upward  he  sees 
in  fancy  the  various  actors  in  the  Raymond  drama  pass 
ing  in  review  before  a  tropical  background  of  hazy  blue 
hills  and  palm-shaded  groves. 

Suddenly  he  utters  an  exclamation:     "Jupiter!    How 


172  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

is  Barker  to  get  to  Cuba?  He  must  have  shot  off  to 
Key  West  without  reading  the  morning  paper,  and  he 
probably  was  not  aware  that  there  are  no  steamers  run 
ning  from  Key  West  any  more  than  from  New  York  or 
other  ports.  When  he  does  learn  that  fact  his  remarks 
will  not  be  fit  for  publication.  Well,  I  suppose,  he  will 
get  there  somehow,  even  if  he  has  to  swim.  But  in  all 
probability  I  shall  reach  the  island  before  him. 

"The  trail  is  plain.  It  leads  to  Cuba,  and  somewhere 
in  the  gem  of  the  Antilles  the  threads  of  the  Raymond 
murder  mystery  will  touch  and  cross  and  interweave." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 
THE  FLAG  OF  CUBA. 

"We  shall  have  a  race,  Don  Manada — a  battle  royal, 
.he  new  United  States  cruiser  America  has  just  steamed 
out  of  the  bay  ahead  of  us  and  we  shall  soon  be  abreast 
of  her." 

"A  race,  Senor  Van  Zandt?  Santissimo!  We  shall 
have  racing  enough  before  we  get  to  Cuba  without  chal 
lenging  unsuspicious  warships  and  courting  investiga 
tion." 

Van  Zandt  laughs  at  the  Cuban  gentleman's  anxious 
tones.  "I  told  you,  my  friend,  that  once  on  the  high  seas 
nothing  short  of  a  cannon  ball  can  overhaul  the  Sem- 
iramis.  Come  on  deck  in  an  hour,  senor,  and  I  will 
prove  to  you  what  may  now  seem  an  idle  boast." 

For  excellent  reasons  Manada  is  keeping  in  the  back 
ground  as  much  as  possible.  But  he  finds  the  luxurious 
cabin  of  the  Semiramis  much  to  his  liking,  and  he  smokes 
and  dreams  of  "Cuba  Libre"  while  the  Semiramis  steams 
down  the  bay  and  out  upon  the  bosom  of  the  Atlantic, 
and  when  he  goes  on  deck,  wrapped  in  the  long  semi- 
military  cloak  which  effectually  conceals  his  person,  the 


THE   FLAG   OF   CUBA.  173 

sight  which  greets  his  eyes  fills  him  with  apprehension, 
though  challenging  his  liveliest  interest. 

The  battle  of  steam  is  well  under  way.  The  America 
is  less  than  a  dozen  lengths  astern  and  presents  a  beau 
tiful  sight  to  the  people  on  the  Semiramis.  The  glisten 
ing  white  hull  plows  the  water  at  a  speed  which  dashes 
the  spray  high  in  air  from  the  delicately  carved  cut 
water,  and  the  triple  funnels  vomit  great  clouds  of  inky 
smoke.  Manada's  eyes  rove  to  the  United  States  flag 
whipping  out  in  the  breeze  and  he  mutters  a  favorite 
malediction  as  he  thinks  of  the  insurgent  arms  stored  in 
the  hold  of  the  Semiramis. 

But  as  he  grows  aware  that  the  yacht  of  his  strange 
friend  is  drawing  away  from  the  American  man-of-war 
he  becomes  the  incarnation  of  suppressed  excitement. 
And  when  Van  Zandt  claps  him  on  the  shoulder  and 
shouts  in  his  ear,  "Well,  senor,  what  do  you  think  of  the 
Semiramis?"  the  Cuban  shouts  back  enthusiastically: 
"El  Semiramis  es  un  diablo  verdadero!" 

Without  the  change  of  a  muscle  in  his  weather-beaten 
face,  Capt.  Sam  Beals  paces  the  bridge  of  the  Semiramis, 
while  the  exciting  duel  of  steam  and  steel  continues, 
not  a  gesture  or  ejaculation  indicating  that  the  beautiful 
yacht  is  literally  steaming  away  from  the  cruiser — a  vessel 
heralded  far  and  wide  as  the  speediest  craft  among  all 
the  navies  of  the  world. 

But  if  the  chief  officer  is  apparently  undisturbed,  the 
same  cannot  be  said  of  any  other  person  on  board.  The 
excitement  of  the  race  has  roused  the  owner  of  the  yacht 
from  his  cold  reserve,  and  as  with  sparkling  eye  and  eager 
step  he  hurries  from  the  engine-room  to  the  quarterdeck, 
noting  with  each  return  the  slowly  but  steadily  lengthen 
ing  space  of  open  water  that  separates  the  two  vessels, 
Louise  Hathaway  mentally  retracts  her  decision  that 
Phillip  Van  Zandt  is  cold  and  unsympathetic. 

As  for  Miss  Hathaway  herself,  she  is  thoroughly  im 
bued  with  the  spirit  of  the  race.  Securely  sheltered 
from  the  fierce  rush  of  wind  which  the  tremendous  speed 
of  the  Semiramis  causes  to  sweep  over  the  deck,  she 
makes  an  attractive  picture  as  she  watches  the  race.  The 


174  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

svelte  form  is  outlined  in  a  gown  of  navy  blue;  the 
beautiful  face  is  framed  in  a  golden  aureole  of  wavy  locks ; 
the  matchless  blue  eyes  glisten  with  unwonted  excite 
ment,  and  a  delicate  color  tints  her  cheek.  It  is  not 
strange  that  Van  Zandt  divides  his  time  between  the  race 
and  his  fair  passenger. 

Even  pale,  stern-faced  Cyrus  Felton  has  for  the  nonce 
became  stirred  by  the  infectious  excitement,  and  with  a 
zest  that  he  has  not  manifested  for  years  he  watches  the 
unavailing  efforts  of  the  warship  to  overhaul  the  pleasure 
craft. 

"Isn't  there  more  and  blacker  smoke  pouring  from  the 
America's  stacks?"  inquires  Miss  Hathaway,  as  the  owner 
of  the  Semiramis  returns  from  a  brief  interview  with  the 
engineer,  with  the  cheery  assurance  that  the  engines  are 
running  as  smoothly  as  if  the  yacht  were  moving  at 
quarter-speed. 

"She  is  surely  making  more  smoke  and,  if  I  mistake 
not,  more  speed,"  answers  Van  Zandt,  a  shade  of  anxiety 
replacing  his  almost  boyish  enthusiasm.  "Mr.  Beals, 
what  think  you  of  it?"  turning  to  the  executive  officer; 
"is  she  gaining  on  us?" 

"She  has  just  put  on  her  forced  draught,  sir,  and  is 
now  running  at  her  top  speed.  She  is  gaining,  now, 
but " 

Without  finishing  the  sentence  the  captain  presses  the 
electric  bells  which  communicate  with  the  engine-room. 
It  is  soon  apparent  that  the  yacht  has  not  until  now 
reached  the  limit  of  her  speed.  The  regular  vibrations 
that  mark  the  revolutions  of  the  twin  shafts  become  one 
prolonged  shiver,  and  the  black  hull  is  hurled  through 
the  water  at  incredible  speed. 

The  effect  becomes  noticeable  in  short  order.  The 
white  mass  astern  grows  "fine  by  degrees  and  beautifully 
less,"  and  as  Capt.  Beals  closes  his  glass  with  a  snap  he 
remarks,  complacently:  "She'll  be  hull  down  in  an  hour 
or  two  if  she  doesn't  blow  out  a  cylinder  head  before  that 
time." 

Just  about  this  time  Van  Zandt  and  Manada  go  below 
and  reappear  a  few  moments  later  with  a  closely  rolled 


THE    FLAG    OF    CUBA.  175 

silken  flag,  which  Van  Zandt  hands  to  the  captain  with 
the  command  that  it  be  hoisted  to  the  breeze.  Without 
even  examining  the  emblem,  the  imperturbable  executive 
officer  bends  the  silken  roll  upon  the  halyards.  A  few 
hearty  pulls  by  a  stalwart  blue-jacket  and  the  ensign 
reaches  the  masthead,  where  the  stiff  breeze  quickly 
breaks  it  out. 

As  a  singular  flag,  with  a  solitary  star  in  a  triangular 
field  of  blue,  is  revealed  to  the  wondering  gaze  of  pas 
sengers  and  crew,  Don  Manada  reverently  bares  his 
head  and  his  lips  frame  the  words  "Viva  Cuba  Libre!" 

Suddenly  there  is  borne  to  their  ears,  above  the  whist 
ling  of  the  wind  and  the  mighty  pulsations  of  the  ma 
chinery,  the  sullen  boom  of  cannon.  All  eyes  instinctively 
seek  the  America.  A  puff  of  white  issues  from  her 
forward  barbette,  and  as  Capt.  Beals  returns  his  glass 
to  its  socket,  he  tells  Van  Zandt: 

"She  has  saluted  the  Semiramis  and  dipped  her  ensign. 
She  is  bearing  off  to  windward  and  gives  up  the  race." 

"She  saw  the  flag,  do  you  think?" 

"Doubtless,"  Mr.  Beals  replies,  with  a  grim  smile. 
"Shall  we  slacken  speed,  sir?" 

"Only  to  natural  draught.  I  wish  to  make  our  destina 
tion  as  soon  as  possible.  And  by  the  way,  Mr.  Beals, 
you  may  haul  down  the  flag.  It  has  served  its  purpose 
for  the  present,"  pointing  to  the  enraptured  Don  Manada. 

Then  Van  Zandt  conducts  his  passengers  below  and  is 
prepared  for  Miss  Hatha way's  question: 

"Is  that  your  personal  emblem,  Mr.  Van  Zandt?'' 

"No,  Miss  Hathaway,"  is  the  calm  response.  "That 
is  the  flag  of  the  Cuban  Republic.  You  are  now  under 
the  protection  of  the  provisional  government  of  the  gem 
of  the  Antilles.  Permit  me  to  introduce  to  you  Don 
Rafael  Manada,  minister  of  war  of  the  infant  republic. 
Long  may  she  wave !" 

Manada  bows  low  and  looks  vastly  gratified  by  the 
official  title  jestingly  conferred  upon  him.  Cyrus  Felton's 
face,  however,  is  darkened  by  a  frown  and  Miss  Hatha 
way  is  not  at  all  pleased. 

"Will  you  not  take  seats  and  make  yourselves  entirely 


176  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

easy?"  Van  Zandt  proceeds,  unruffled  by  the  cold  de 
meanor  of  his  passengers. 

"Perhaps  I  should  have  told  you  before  you  embarked," 
explains  Van  Zandt,  with  a  glance  at  Miss  Hathaway 
that  does  much  toward  reassuring  her,  "that  although  we 
are  bound  for  Cuba,  our  primary  destination  is  not  San 
tiago.  The  Semiramis  has  a  cargo  of  arms  and  ammuni 
tion  which  I  have  undertaken  to  deliver  to  the  Cuban 
revolutionists.  Senor  Manada  is  the  supercargo.  Be 
lieve  me,"  he  adds,  as  Miss  Hathaway  pales  at  the  word 
"revolutionists,"  "there  is  absolutely  no  danger,  not  the 
slightest — and  least  of  all  to  you.  Even  if  my  yacht  were 
apprehended — though  I  do  not  believe  there  is  a  vessel 
on  the  waters  of  the  globe  that  can  overtake  her — you 
would  be  subject  to  no  annoyance  and  but  little  incon 
venience.  After  we  have  discharged  our  cargo  we  will 
proceed  at  once  to  Santiago,  and  you  will  be  landed  much 
earlier  than  if  you  had  gone  by  a  regular  steamer.  And 
I  am  sure  this  vessel  is  fully  as  comfortable  as  any  of 
those  stuffy,  crowded  craft." 

"Then  we  are  aboard  a  filibustering  expedition,"  de 
clares  Mr.  Felton,  harshly. 

"Hardly  that.  You  are  on  board  an  American  yacht, 
manned  by  American  seamen,  with  just  one  Cuban 
patriot,  a  man  as  honorable  and  true  as  yourself,  Mr. 
Felton."  Van  Zandt's  voice  is  stern  and  dignified.  "I  am 
not  a  Cuban  partisan,  but  liberty  to  me  is  as  precious  as 
the  air  of  heaven.  Until  a  few  hours  ago  there  was  no 
thought  of  the  cargo  now  beneath  us.  The  arms  were 
designed  to  go  by  another  vessel.  But  at  the  last  moment 
the  plans  of  the  patriots  were  betrayed.  Then  it  was  that 
I  stepped  in  and  offered  the  services  of  my  yacht  to 
convey  the  much-needed  aid  to  the  down-trodden  men  of 
the  Antilles." 

"And  meanwhile  you  have  jeopardized  the  safety  of 
Miss  Hathaway  and  myself,"  Mr.  Felton  sneers.  "Sup 
pose  we  are  intercepted  by  a  Spanish  warship?  Think 
you  that  they  will  not  regard  us — myself  at  least — as 
members  of  this  expedition?  What  then,  Mr.  Van 
Zandt?" 


THE   FLAG   OP   CUBA.  177 

The  latter  s  lip  curls  slightly.  "Again  I  assure  you  that 
there  is  absolutely  no  danger.  I  will  answer  for  your 
safety  on  this  voyage  with  my  life."  Then  to  Louise, 
with  a  look  that  brings  a  flush  to  her  fair  face:  "Have 
you  no  faith  in  the  yacht,  if  not  in  her  owner,  Miss 
Hathaway?" 

"I  think  that  Mr.  Felton  is  needlessly  alarmed,"  is  that 
young  lady's  composed  reply.  "As  for  the  yacht,  I  am 
quite  carried  away  with  it,  figuratively  as  well  as  literally. 
This  is  my  first  voyage,  Mr.  Van  Zandt,  and  if  you  will 
insure  me  against  mal  de  mer,  that  dread  bugbear  of  the 
voyageur,  I  will  try  to  brave,  with  becoming  equanimity, 
the  perils  of  the  Spanish  main." 

Cyrus  Felton,  however,  is  decidedly  alarmed  by  Van 
Zandt's  admission  of  the  incidental  errand  of  the  Semi- 
ramis.  A  strong  distrust  of  her  owner  begins  to  grow 
in  his  mind;  this  added  to  the  qualms  of  seasickness, 
which  have  begun  to  make  themselves  felt,  renders  him 
thoroughly  miserable  in  spirit  and  body,  and  without  rais 
ing  another  objection  he  asks  to  be  shown  to  his  state 
room. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Van  Zandt  does  not  manifest 
heartfelt  regret  at  Mr.  Felton's  unhappy  condition,  and 
even  Miss  Hathaway  is  somewhat  perfunctory  in  her 
expressions  of  sympathy.  An  unaccountable  confidence 
in  the  handsome  owner  of  the  Semiramis  has  replaced 
her  early  distrust,  and,  happily  exempt  from  the  "dread 
bugbear  of  the  voyageur,''  she  accepts  with  pleasure  Van 
Zandt's  proposition  that  they  explore  the  yacht. 

The  Semiramis  is  fair  to  look  upon,  from  capstan  to 
rudder,  and  from  keelson  to  main  truck.  The  Vermont 
maiden  marvels  at  the  comfort,  convenience  and  luxury 
on  every  hand.  The  palatial  saloon,  with  its  unusually 
high  ceiling,  furnished  in  oriental  magnificence  and  in 
cluding  a  superb  upright  piano,  Miss  Hathaway's  eye 
notes  approvingly;  the  commodious  staterooms,  arranged 
en  suite,  with  the  respectable  appearing  stewardess  in 
charge ;  the  plain  but  ample  and  scrupulously  neat  quar 
ters  of  the  crew;  the  engineroom,  with  its  masses  of  highly 


178  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

polished  steel  and  brass — all  possess  elements  of  interest 
to  the  girl. 

That  night,  as  she  lays  her  head  on  her  pillow,  "rocked 
in  the  cradle  of  the  deep,"  she  suddenly  starts  as  if  from  a 
dream.  For  there  comes  to  her  ears  again,  from  some 
where,  that  melody  strangely  sweet,  yet  filled  with  subtle 
melancholy,  the  andante  of  her  beloved  sonata. 

Then  a  light  goes  up,  as  the  Germans  have  the  saying, 
and  Miss  Hathaway  understands  now  her  blindly  placed 
confidence  in  the  master  of  the  Semiramis.  For  Don 
Caesar  de  Bazan  is  Phillip  Van  Zandt  and — and — 

But  what  Miss  Hathaway  thinks  about  as  Atlantic's 
waves  lull  her  to  slumber  would  certainly  interest  the 
young  man  who  sits  up  far  into  the  night,  chatting  and 
smoking  with  the  "minister  of  war  of  the  Cuban  repub 
lic"  while  the  Semiramis  rushes  on  her  eventful  voyage  to 
the  tropics. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE  FLAG  OF  CASTILE. 

"Twelve  hours  from  now,  Miss  Hathaway,  you  will 
have  your  first  glimpse  of  Cuba.  Then,  our  business 
transacted,  a  quick  and  uninterrupted  run  to  Santiago, 
and  tomorrow  you  will  be  on  terra  firma." 

"It  has  been  a  remarkably  short  voyage,  Mr.  Van 
Zandt." 

"Deplorably  so.  I  never  before  regretted  the  speed 
of  the  Semiramis,  but  now — would  that  she  were  as  snail- 
like  as  the  old  West  Indian  tub  we  overhauled  yesterday. 
Can  I  prevail  upon  you,  Miss  Hathaway,  to  again  favor 
me  with  my  pet  Chopin  nocturne?  The  electric  fans  ren 
der  the  saloon  as  comfortable  as  the  deck." 

"My  poor  playing  is  always  at  your  service,  Mr.  Van 
Zandt.  I  assure  you  that  I  never  expected  to  enjoy  a 
voyage,  to  Cuba  or  elsewhere,  as  I  have  this.  Your  kind 
ness  in  granting  us — '' 


THE  FLAG  OF  CASTILE.  179 

"My  kindness  was  purely  selfish,"  interposes  Van 
Zandt. 

It  is  easy  to  see  that  for  two  people  on  board  the  yacht 
the  last  few  days  have  swiftly  sped.  Van  Zandt  and  Miss 
Hathaway  have  been  much  in  each  other's  company. 
Confidences  have  been  neither  asked  nor  given,  but  a 
mutual  sympathy  has  taken  root  that  might  prove  de 
structive  to  the  reserve  of  one  and  the  "marble''  of  the 
other  were  the  voyage  to  the  tropics  to  last  many  days 
longer. 

Cyrus  Felton  is  restricted  to  his  stateroom  most  of  the 
time,  a  victim  of  the  malady  of  the  sea  and  a  gnawing, 
indefinable  distrust  of  the  owner  of  the  yacht.  As  for 
Don  Manada,  he  divides  his  attention  between  the  huge 
cigars  from  which  his  fingers  or  teeth  are  never  free,  and 
a  careful  outlook  for  any  of  the  Spanish  squadron  that  is 
supposed  to  blockade  the  coast  of  the  isle  of  Cuba. 

But  the  sensuous  indolence  of  the  tropic  day  and  the 
glories  of  the  tropic  night  lure  Van  Zandt  and  Miss 
Hathaway  into  dreams  of  peace  and  hope  and  fulfillment. 
The  days  spent  on  the  quarterdeck,  sheltered  by  an  awn 
ing  from  the  rays  of  the  sun,  the  speed  of  the  yacht  pro 
viding  a  delightful  breeze,  glide  gently  into  the  brief  twi 
light.  The  .great  stars  shoot  out  of  the  blue  with  quiv 
ering  points  of  fire,  and  the  wind  sighs  musically  through 
the  rigging  as  the  tireless  steam  drives  the  boat  through 
the  phosphorescent  waves. 

"Consider  what  the  voyage  would  have  been  to  me 
without  your  presence,"  continues  Van  Zandt,  as  he  leads 
the  way  to  the  saloon.  "With  Don  Manada  there,  en 
grossed  in  Quixotic  schemes  for  achieving  the  independ 
ence  of  his  beloved  country,  and  Capt.  Beals  as  communi 
cative  as  a  sphinx,  your  society  has  saved  me  from  myself 
— a  synonym  for  dreariness.  And  now  for  the  nocturne." 

While  Van  Zandt  is  telling  Miss  Hathaway  that  she  is 
the  only  woman  he  has  ever  heard  play  Chopin  intelli 
gently,  and  the  latter  is  modestly  disclaiming  such  ability, 
the  musical  echo  of  the  lookout's  call  is  passed  to  the 
saloon: 

"Sail  ho!" 


180  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Where  away?"  is  the  challenge. 

"On  the  weather  bow.  A  large  steamer,  judging  from 
her  smoke!" 

Don  Manada  casts  his  cherished  cigar  to  the  waves  and 
glues  his  eyes  to  the  telescope. 

As  announced,  the  unknown  vessel  is  directly  on  the 
weather  bow  and  will  pass  within  half  a  mile  of  the  Semi- 
ramis,  if  the  two  craft  hold  to  their  present  courses. 

The  captain  intently  watches  the  approaching  vessel. 
The  Semiramis  is  far  beyond  the  five-mile  limit  of  the 
Cuban  coast,  but  if  the  unknown  is  a  Spanish  cruiser 
she  may  become  suspicious  of  the  trim  yacht. 

It  therefore  behooves  the  American  steamer  to  insure 
the  stranger  a  wide  berth  if  the  latter  displays  the  arms  of 
Castile;  to  show  a  clean  pair  of  heels,  in  the  vernacular 
of  the  sailor,  if  flight  is  necessary. 

Again  are  preparations  made  to  force  the  Semiramis 
to  her  highest  speed.  The  awnings  are  removed,  the 
boats  once  more  unswung  from  the  davits,  the  force  of 
stokers  in  the  engine-room  augmented  by  half  a  score 
of  sturdy  seamen,  and  soon  the  roaring  of  the  forced 
draught  in  the  funnels  again  drowns  the  hum  of  the  en 
gines. 

At  rail  or  in  rigging,  from  bridge  or  quarterdeck  the 
people  of  the  Semiramis  watch  intently  the  approaching 
vessel,  whose  funnels  and  upper  works  are  now  visible 
through  the  glass. 

The  Semiramis  bears  gradually  to  the  westward,  to  af 
ford  the  stranger  at  least  three  miles  leeway.  Suddenly 
Capt.  Beals  lays  aside  his  glasses  and  rubs  his  chin 
thoughtfully. 

"Do  you  care  to  show  your  papers  to  the  Don?''  he 
asks  Van  Zandt. 

"To  the  Don?  Is  she  a  Spaniard,  sure?  But  we  shall 
pass  a  comfortable  distance  to  windward  of  her  and  she 
will  not  attempt  to  interrupt  us." 

"She  has  already  changed  her  course  and  is  bearing 
directly  across  our  bows.  See !" 

The  unknown,  now  less  than  ten  miles  distant,  seems 
to  be  steaming  at  full  speed  for  a  point  directly  in  the 


THE  FLAG  OF  CASTILE.  181 

course  of  the  Semiramis.  Her  broadside  is  now  visible 
to  the  anxious  watchers  on  the  yacht.  She  is  apparently 
an  armored  cruiser  of  perhaps  5,000  tons,  her  hull  painted 
a  dull  and  featureless  gray.  No  flag  or  emblem  is  as  yet 
displayed  from  her  taut  and  business-like  rigging. 

"She  is  painted  and  cleared  for  action.  She  is — ah!  I 
thought  so!" 

A  flag  is  broken  from  the  cruiser's  masthead,  and  Capt. 
Beals,  as  he  focuses  his  binocular  upon  the  streaming  em 
blem,  mutters  between  his  teeth:  "The  flag  of  Castile!" 

"Tis  a  Spanish  warship,  Senor  Van  Zandt!"  exclaims 
Manada,  who  has  been  studying  the  stranger.  "Can 
your  beautiful  craft  bear  us  from  harm's  way?  I  fear 
that  yonder  ship  is  the  Infanta  Isabel,  the  latest  and  most 
formidable  accession  to  the  navy  of  our  hated  oppressors. 
She  has  been  detailed  to  intercept  vessels  supposed  to 
bear  arms  and  re-enforcements  to  our  friends,  and  espe 
cially  to  watch  for  and  destroy  our  gallant  Pearl  of  the 
Antilles." 

"Have  no  fears,  Don  Manada.  Your  cargo  is  safe. 
We  will  show  the  Spaniard  a  trick  or  two;  eh,  Beals?" 

Capt.  Beals  does  not  reply  in  words  to  his  employers 
confident  assertion,  but  an  observant  man  might  distin 
guish  a  slight  relaxation  of  the  muscles  about  his  mouth. 

The  Semiramis  holds  steadily  on  her  course.  Only  the 
increasing  clouds  of  smoke  that  pour  from  her  funnels 
indicate  that  anything  out  of  the  ordinary  is  expected  of 
the  yacht. 

Only  six  miles  distant!     Five!     Four! 

A  puff  of  white  that  rolls  lazily  from  the  forward  deck 
of  the  cruiser  is  succeeded  by  a  dull  roar. 

"Show  the  Don  our  colors,"  Capt.  Beals  orders  the 
second  officer. 

While  the  smoke  from  the  cannon  yet  lingers  above 
the  Spaniard's  deck  the  glorious  stars  and  stripes  unfurl 
from  the  mainmast  of  the  Semiramis,  and  snap  gayly, 
defiantly,  upon  the  breeze.  And  still  the  American  yacht 
continues  to  steadily  lessen  the  distance  that  separates  the 
two  craft. 

Boom! 


182  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

Another  puff  of  white,  followed  a  few  seconds  later  by 
the  report;  and  this  time  the  watchers  on  the  yacht  can 
see  the  flash  of  the  gun. 

Only  two  miles  distant  now,  and  the  Spanish  warship, 
apparently  convinced  that  the  American  understands  and 
designs  to  obey  the  peremptory  summons  to  heave  to,  has 
slowed  her  engines  until  the  cruiser  has  barely  headway 
on  the  long  swells. 

Calmly  pacing  the  bridge,  as  if  a  thousand  miles  sepa 
rated  the  vessels — nearly  equal  in  size,  but  how  dissimilar 
in  destructive  power! — Capt.  Beals  has  not  indicated  a 
slowing  of  the  yacht's  engines,  although  the  bow  of  the 
Semiramis  points  at  the  steep  side  of  the  Spaniard,  di 
rectly  amidship. 

Not  half  a  dozen  lengths  away! 

The  officers  and  men  on  the  man-of-war  are  clearly 
visible  to  those  on  the  yacht.  The  captain  and  his  sub 
alterns  are  grouped  on  the  quarterdeck,  the  marines 
amidship,  the  blue-jackets  crowding  the  rail  and  adjacent 
rigging.  The  cruiser  is  stationary  on  the  water. 

But  with  no  sensible  diminution  of  speed  the  Semira 
mis  bears  upon  the  Spaniard,  the  white  foam  dashing  high 
on  either  side  of  her  bow.  Capt.  Beals  is  fingering  the 
electric  buttons  that  regulate  the  speed  and  course  of  the 
yacht. 

The  Spanish  captain  nearly  drops  his  speaking  trum 
pet.  What  is  El  Americano  thinking  of?  He  cannot 
stop  in  five  times  his  own  length  at  such  a  frightful  speed! 
Is  he  mad?  Ah!  Dios!  Caramba!  And  a  dozen 
more  Castilian  expletives  poured  forth  in  a  torrent  of  as 
tonishment,  rage  and  chagrin. 

For  with  a  sudden  turn  to  the  windward  that  causes 
the  yacht  to  careen  until  her  white  sides  below  the  water 
Hne  gleam  for  an  instant  in  the  sunlight,  with  an  acces 
sion  of  speed  that  sends  her  forward  as  a  whip  would  a 
nervous  horse,  the  Semiramis  darts  by  the  stern  of  the 
Spanish  man-of-war,  the  smoke  from  her  furnaces  en 
veloping  for  a  moment  the  cruiser's  afterdeck. 

Two  minutes  later  she  is  a  mile  astern  of  the  warship, 
her  long  white  trail  sparkling  in  the  sunlight,  and  the 


THE  FLAG  OF  CASTILE.  183 

red,  white  and  blue  still  snapping  defiantly  at  the  mast 
head. 

"I  wonder  if  the  Don  can  turn  in  five  times  his  own 
length,"  observes  the  sententious  Mr.  Beals,  as  he  watches 
the  warship  slowly  getting  under  way. 

Whether  he  can  or  cannot  is  not  at  this  time  to  be 
demonstrated.  The  cruiser  makes  no  attempt  to  about 
ship,  but  another  report  booms  from  the  forward  gun, 
followed  a  second  or  two  later  by  one  from  the  aft  bar 
bette,  and  a  solid  shot  ricochets  along  the  waves  astern 
of  the  Semiramis  and  plunges  beneath  the  water  an  eighth 
of  a  mile  distant. 

Van  Zandt  grows  grave  as  he  realizes  the  significance 
of  this  last  shot,  but  a  glance  at  the  receding  cruiser  con 
vinces  him  of  the  futility  of  the  cannonade.  The  Span 
iard,  too,  appears  convinced,  and  the  cruiser  is  soon  lost 
to  view  in  the  expanse  of  ocean. 

The  rest  of  the  day  the  Semiramis  holds  unmolested 
her  course  for  the  mountain-girth  shores  of  Cuba.  As 
night  draws  on  the  engines  are  slowed,  and,  with  fires 
banked  and  double  watch  posted,  the  yacht  quietly  rocks 
on  the  bosom  of  the  deep.  A  wavy  outline  on  the  horizon 
indicates  the  southern  coast  of  the  revolution-racked  isle 
and  somewhere  on  that  outline  is  the  sequestered  little 
harbor  of  Cantero. 

It  is  a  weary,  an  unnerving  vigil,  for  Don  Manada  at 
least.  For  hours  his  anxious  gaze  sweeps  the  horizon, 
while  the  Semiramis  rides  the  breasting  waves  as  grace 
fully  as  a  summer  bird  soars  into  the  blue. 

As  the  first  shafts  of  light  radiate  from  the  emerging 
disk,  Louise  Hathaway,  whom  the  unwonted  excitement 
of  the  preceding  day  has  driven  early  from  her  pillow, 
cries  out  with  a  girlish  enthusiasm  that  brings  a  smile 
to  the  face  of  Capt.  Beals:  "Sail  ho!  Sail  ho!" 

Every  one  springs  to  rail  or  rigging.  "Where  away?" 
is  the  quick  challenge  of  Mr.  Beals. 

"Right  there,  sir,"  is  the  unnautical  response  of  Miss 
Hathaway,  and  she  indicates  a  point  not  five  degrees 
north  of  the  rising  orb  of  day. 

With  the  glass  at  his  eyes,  the  taciturn  commander  of 


184  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

the  Semiramis  watches  intently  the  speck  on  the  glowing 
horizon  that  means  much  to  the  excited  Manada  at  his 
elbow  and  to  the  latter's  struggling  fellow-patriots  on  the 
isle  whose  outlines  are  now  bathed  in  the  flood  of  sun 
light. 

Is  it  another  Spanish  warship,  or  is  it  the  looked-for 
Cuban  cruiser,  the  doughty  Pearl  of  the  Antilles? 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

AN  AFFRONT  AND  AN  APOLOGY. 

The  Semiramis  rests  stationary  upon  the  surface  of 
the  water,  but  there  are  scenes  of  activity  in  the  engine 
room.  The  columns  of  smoke  from  her  stacks  grow  into 
thick  black  volumes,  and  the  roar  of  escaping  steam 
drowns  ordinary  conversation. 

On  deck,  officers,  passengers  and  crew  are  watching 
the  rapidly  growing  spot  upon  the  horizon.  That  the  ap 
proaching  vessel  is  steaming  very  fast  is  apparent.  Her 
upper  works  are  visible  as  Capt.  Beals  signals  for  the 
Semiramis  to  steam  ahead  at  full  speed.  The  course  of 
the  latter  is  laid  to  pass  the  stranger  a  mile  or  two  to 
windward,  if  she  does  not  change  her  present  course. 

Don  Manada  has  possessed  himself  of  the  captain's 
glasses  and  is  earnestly  scanning  the  distant  steamer. 
Suddenly,  in  a  very  paroxyism  of  joy  he  embraces  the 
owner  of  the  yacht. 

"It  is  the  Pearl!"  he  cries;  "the  Pearl  of  the  Antilles! 
Santisima!  Now  will  you  display  the  flag  of  Cuba  Li 
bre?"  The  English  language  fails  to  express  the  senti 
ments  of  the  Cuban  patriot  at  this  juncture,  and  he 
launches  a  flood  of  Castilian  that  bewilders  Van  Zandt. 

At  a  nod  from  the  latter,  however,  Capt.  Beals  causes 
the  fateful  emblem  of  Cuba  to  be  run  up  to  the  masthead. 
The  silken  banner  is  barely  unfurled  by  the  wind  ere 
there  are  signs  of  excitement  on  board  the  strange  steam- 


AN  AFFRONT  AND  AN  APOLOGY.       185 

ship.  A  duplicate  of  the  Semiramis'  ensign  is  displayed, 
and  then  the  course  of  the  vessel  is  changed  and  she 
steams  rapidly  toward  the  yacht.  Don  Manada  is  not 
mistaken.  The  steamship  is  the  famous  Pearl  of  the  An 
tilles. 

The  Semiramis  has  slowed  down  her  engines,  and 
awaits  the  approach  of  the  insurgent  cruiser.  As  the  lat- 
ters  nears  the  yacht  the  resemblance  of  the  two  steam 
ships  becomes  more  striking.  The  Pearl  is  almost  precise 
ly  the  length  of  the  Semiramis,  and  like  her  is  rigged  with 
two  masts.  Her  two  smokestacks  are  set  at  the  same  angle 
as  those  of  the  yacht  and  like  the  latter  she  is  equipped 
with  twin  propellers.  On  deck,  however,  there  is  a  de 
cided  difference.  The  engines  of  the  Pearl  are  protected 
by  heavy  plates  of  steel,  while  on  her  forward  deck  a 
sort  of  turret  has  been  improvised,  within  which,  the 
people  on  the  Semiramis  can  readily  guess,  is  the  fa 
mous  "Yankee  gun,"  the  dynamite  cannon  whose  well- 
aimed  projectile  sent  the  Spanish  Mercedes  to  the  bottom. 

Five  lengths  away  the  Pearl  becomes  stationary  on  the 
waves,  while  through  a  speaking  tube,  the  voluble  Ma 
nada  acquaints  her  commander  with  the  character  and 
mission  of  the  yacht.  A  boat  is  lowered  from  the  in 
surgent  craft  and  is  rowed  to  the  side  of  the  Semiramis, 
and  a  moment  later  a  distinguished  looking  man  in  the 
undress  uniform  of  an  officer  of  the  Spanish  navy  is 
clasped  in  the  arms  of  Don  Manada. 

"Senor  Van  Zandt,"  the  latter  says,  "permit  me  to  pre 
sent  to  you  Capt.  Gerardo  Nunez,  the  commander  of 
yonder  vessel.  Senor  Van  Zandt,"  he  explains  extrava 
gantly  to  Capt.  Nunez,  "is  the  good  angel  who  rendered 
it  possible  for  us  to  convey  the  much-needed  arms  and 
ammunition  in  our  hold  to  our  struggling  compatriots." 

Capt.  Nunez  cordially  grasps  the  hand  of  Van  Zandt. 
"Senor,"  he  says,  "I  am  more  than  pleased  to  meet  you, 
and  join  with  Don  Manada  in  expressing  the  gratitude 
of  our  people  for  your  services  in  the  cause  of  liberty." 

Van  Zandt  waves  his  hand.  "  'Tis  nothing.  My  sym 
pathies  are  with  the  insurgents  and  being  in  position  to 
help  Don  Manada  out  of  a  box" — the  Cuban  flushes  at 


186  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

the  recollection  of  his  last  conversation  with  Mrs.  Hard 
ing — "I  was  only  too  glad  to  do  it.  But  what  is  the 
latest  news  from  the  seat  of  war?" 

Capt.  Nunez'  eyes  light  up  with  enthusiasm.  "Glori 
ous!"  he  says.  "Gen.  Masso  has  just  achieved  a  victory 
over  3,000  Spanish  troops  in  the  Puerto  Principe  District. 
El  Terredo  is  receiving  constant  additions  to  his  forces 
and  the  outlook  was  never  brighter.  It  is  to  equip  El 
Terredo's  army  that  these  arms  and  ammunition  will  be 
used." 

"El  Terredo?"  inquires  Van  Zandt.  "Is  he  not  attached 
to  the  Pearl  of  the  Antilles?" 

"He  has  been  up  to  within  a  week,  but  is  now  on 
shore  duty.  By  the  way,  senor,"  remarks  the  Cuban 
commander,  casting  a  glance  over  the  deck  of  the  Sem- 
iramis,  "you  have  a  magnificent  yacht,  and  I  doubt  not 
she  is  as  speedy  as  she  is  handsome." 

"Speedy!"  breaks  in  Don  Manada.  "She  is  as  swift  as 
the  wind!  She  sailed  away  from  the  America,  the  fastest 
cruiser  in  the  United  States  Navy,  and  as  for  the  Infanta 
Isabel — poof!  She  snaps  her  fingers  at  her!" 

Capt.  Beals  approaches  the  group  at  this  moment  and 
is  introduced  to  the  Cuban  captain. 

"I  think,  sir,"  he  says  to  Van  Zandt,  "if  we  are  to 
transfer  our  cargo  it  would  be  advisable  to  waste  no 
time.  There  is  no  knowing  when  a  Spanish  gunboat  will 
show  up." 

This  advice  is  manifestly  so  timely  that  no  time  is  lost 
in  following  it.  The  two  hulls  are  laid  side  by  side,  the 
smoothness  of  the  water  permitting  the  operation  in 
safety  and  hundreds  of  brawny  arms  are  quickly  at  work 
transferring  the  cargo  from  the  Semiramis  to  the  Pearl. 

At  last  the  work  is  completed  and  Van  Zandt  looks 
inquiringly  at  Don  Manada. 

"Will  you  continue  with  the  yacht  or  accompany  the 
cargo  on  board  the  Pearl?"  he  asks. 

The  Cuban  emissary  hesitates.  "If  I  might  add  to  the 
already  heavy  debt  of  gratitude  I  owe  you " 

"Oh.  that's  all  right,"  interrupts  Van  Zandt.  "So 
you  will  remain  with  us.  I  am  glad  of  your  company. 


AN  AFFRONT  AND  AN  APOLOGY.       187 

We  sail  for  Santiago  and  afterward'' — he  hesitates  a 
moment,  his  eyes  wandering  to  Miss  Hathaway,  who  is 
watching  curiously  the  motley  crew  of  the  Pearl — "well, 
eventually  back  to  New  York." 

Manada  nods  gratefully.  "I  am  of  more  service  to  the 
cause  in  America  than  I  could  possibly  be  in  Cuba,"  he 
says,  apologetically. 

The  adieus  are  said,  the  lines  cast  off,  and  the  Sem- 
iramis  and  Pearl  move  slowly  apart.  The  latter  shapes 
her  coarse  for  the  little  harbor  of  Cantero,  where  the  arms 
and  ammunition  are  to  be  landed. 

'"We  are  but  ten  hours'  sail  from  Santiago,  Miss  Hath 
away,"  Van  Zandt  remarks,  as  Louise  idly  watches  the 
rapidly  disappearing  Pearl.  "Then  you  will  bid  adieu  to 
the  Semiramis." 

"Regretfully,  indeed,  Mr.  Van  Zandt.  The  last  few 
days  have  sped  all  too  quickly." 

"  'We  take  no  heed  of  time  but  by  its  flight,' "  quotes 
Van  Zandt.  "How  long  do  you  expect  to  remain  in 
Cuba?" 

Louise  turns  a  troubled  face  toward  the  owner  of  the 
yacht.  "That  I  cannot  say.  It  depends  upon  Mr.  Felton. 
He  has  business  interests  to  look  after,  and  if  the  climate 
agrees  with  him  we  may  remain  several  months.'' 

There  is  a  silence  for  a  little,  the  thoughts  of  both 
dwelling  on  the  coming  parting  at  even. 

"Miss  Hathaway/'  says  Van  Zandt,  suddenly.  "I  am 
but  an  idle  fellow,  with  nothing  to  call  me  hence  but  my 
own  inclinations.  Would  it  be  distasteful  to  you  if  I 
should  attach  myself  to  your  party  while  in  Cuba?  The 
country  is  necessarily  unsettled  during  the  war  and  per 
haps  I  might  be  of  service.  L  am  familiar  with  the 
Spanish  language,  which  I  believe  Mr.  Felton  is  not, 
and  I  should  like  to  see  something  of  the  country.  Please 
tell  me  frankly  if  for  any  reason  I  would  be  de  trop?" 

Van  Zandt's  luminous  orbs  are  fixed  on  the  fair  face  of 
Louise  as  he  awaits  the  answer  to  his  question.  For  a 
moment  her  blue  eyes  return  his  gaze.  Then  the  golden- 
fringed  lids  fall  and  a  soft  blush  mantles  her  face. 

"I  certainly  should  not  be  averse  to  your  joining  our 
party,"  she  murmurs  softly,  "if — if  it  be  your  pleasure." 


188  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Thank  you,"  Van  Zandt  returns,  simply,  and  a  mo 
ment  after  Miss  Hathaway  retires  to  her  stateroom. 

"Well,  Manada,"  remarks  Van  Zandt,  slapping  the 
Cuban  upon  the  back,  "your  first  engagement  as  super 
cargo  must  be  rated  a  success,  eh?  The  arms  and  am 
munition — the  biggest  single  consignment  ever  sent  from 
the  States,  I  think  you  said — have  been  safely  delivered 
into  the  hands  of  the  insurgents,  without  the  loss  of  a 
single  Winchester  or  cartridge.  Why  this  pensive  look?" 

"Only  thoughts  of  the  past,  senor.    I  was " 

What  were  Don  Manada's  thoughts  will  never  be  known, 
for  the  people  on  the  yacht  are  electrified  by  the  hail 
from  the  bridge,  "Ship  ahoy!"  followed  a  second  later  by 
the  additional  information,  "Dead  ahead  and  bearing 
this  way!'' 

"There  is  no  special  necessity  for  evading  her  now, 
whoever  she  is,  I  presume,  sir?"  inquires  Capt.  Beals, 
removing  his  glasses  from  his  eyes. 

"None  whatever,"  is  Van  Zandt's  prompt  reply.  "Our 
papers  are  straight  and  we  have  nothing  contraband, 
unless  it  be  the  Don  there.  Let  them  look  us  over  if 
they  wish." 

"She's  not  a  very  large  craft,"  comments  the  taciturn 
executive  officer  of  the  yacht,  as  the  two  vessels  continue 
to  lessen  the  distance  between  them. 

"Probably  one  of  the  blockading  fleet,"  is  Van  Zandt's 
surmise. 

He  is  evidently  right,  for  the  Granger  at  this  point 
displays  the  Spanish  flag  and  at  the  same  time  the  report 
of  a  cannon  echoes  across  the  water. 

"Show  our  colors,"  orders  Van  Zandt,  and  the  flag  of 
the  great  republic  is  caressed  by  the  soft  southern  breeze. 
Another  shot  is  fired  from  the  Spaniard,  and  as  the  Sem- 
iramis  slows  up  a  third  cloud  of  white  floats  from  the  side 
of  the  war  vessel,  followed  by  the  sudden  boom  of  a 
heavier  gun. 

As  the  Semiramis  steams  slowly  toward  the  Spaniard, 
now  distant  less  than  a  mile,  a  forth  report  is  heard. 

"Shotted,  by  heaven!"  ejaculates  Capt.  Beals,  his  eyes 
glued  to  the  glass;  "and  the  Don  has  changed  her  course 
and  is  standing  off  to  pepper  us.  He  is  one  of  those  tin- 


AN  AFFRONT  AND  AN  APOLOGY.       189 

clad  gunboats,  only  half  our  tonnage,  and  pays  no  atten 
tion  to  our  flag.''  Still  another  shot  is  fired,  and  a  solid 
shot  skips  over  the  waves,  barely  two  lengths  astern  of 
the  yacht. 

"Shall  we  ram  him,  sir?  We  can  send  him  to  Davy 
Jones'  locker  in  ten  minutes,  and  not  harm  the  yacht, 
either." 

Van  Zandt's  eyes  glance  aloft  at  the  Stars  and  Stripes 
standing  out  clear  and  free  from  the  maintop,  and  then 
his  eyes  turn  to  the  Spanish  gunboat. 

"Steam  toward  him  full  speed,"  he  says  at  length,  "and 
if  he  fires  on  the  American  flag  again" — the  white  teeth 
shut  with  an  ominous  click — "ram  him  full  amidship,  let 
the  consequences  be  what  they  may." 

But  the  flag  is  not  fired  upon  again.  The  Spaniard  has 
once  more  laid  a  new  course  and  is  now  bearing  down  full 
on  the  yacht.  The  two  craft  are  quickly  within  hailing 
distance,  and  from  the  gunboat  comes  the  inquiry  in 
Spanish  as  to  the  name  and  character  of  the  yacht. 

"The  Semiramis,  pleasure  craft,  New  York  for  Santi 
ago,"  is  Capt.  Beals'  reply. 

The  Spanish  captain  is  profuse  in  apologies  for  firing 
on  the  yacht.  She  closely  resembles  a  rebel  craft,  he 
explains,  and  the  gunboat  was  sure  she  was  that  vessel, 
even  if  she  did  fly  the  American  flag.  Would  the  Sem 
iramis  accept  his  most  humble  apologies?  His  gunboat. 
La  Pinta,  was  about  to  proceed  to  Santiago  for  orders, 
and  if  it  please  los  Americanos  they  might  sail  thither  in 
company,  which  would  insure  the  stranger  against  the 
annoyance  of  being  overhauled  by  some  of  the  other 
numerous  Spanish  vessels  blockading  the  ports. 

Van  Zandt  consults  with  Capt.  Beals. 

"He  wants  to  make  sure  we  don't  land  anything/'  re 
marks  the  latter.  "It  might  save  some  trouble  to  accom 
pany  him  to  Santiago." 

Yes,  the  Spaniard  is  informed,  the  American  accepts 
the  apology  and  the  escort  of  the  gunboat  to  Santiago. 

Before  the  brief  southern  twilight  has  drifted  into  night 
the  Semiramis  is  lying  at  anchor  in  the  harbor  of  Santi 
ago,  under  the  guns  of  the  Spanish  gunboat  La  Pinta. 


190  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

A  SPANISH  BILL  OF  FARE. 

"I  want  some  soft-boiled  eggs,  but  I  don't  suppose  you 
know  a  soft-boiled  egg  from  a  gas  stove,  eh?" 

The  waiter  at  the  Hotel  Royal,  in  Santiago,  regards 
Jack  Ashley  with  an  expression  as  blank  as  a  brick  wall. 

"Don't  get  the  idea,  I  see,"  remarks  Ashley.  "Well, 
let  me  think.  'Huevos'  means  eggs,  I  know  that  much, 
but  what  the  deuce  is  soft-boiled?  I  believe  'blondo'  is 
soft,  and  soft  eggs  might  express  the  idea.  'Blondo 
huevos,' "  he  tells  the  waiter,  and  the  latter,  though  ap 
parently  puzzled,  disappears. 

For  the  next  ten  minutes  Jack  is  occupied  in  receiving 
and  sending  back  orders  of  eggs — eggs  cooked  in  every 
conceivable  style  except  soft-boiled.  Finally  in  despair 
he  selects  a  dish  nearest  to  his  wants,  and  gets  along  all 
right  until  he  decides  to  have  some  chicken.  An  exam 
ination  of  the  bill  of  fare  fails  to  discover  anything  that 
looks  like  chicken,  and  the  case  appears  hopeless. 

"If  I  only  had  my  phrase  book  with  me  I  might  do 
some  business,"  he  reflects.  "As  it  is,  I  don't  see  any 
way  out  of  it  except  to  draw  a  picture  of  a  chicken.  Hold 
on;  'gallina'  means  hen,  unless  I  have  forgotten  my 
studies,  and  if  there  is  anything  consistent  in  the  linguistic 
diminutives  of  the  Spanish  language,  'gallinoso'  must  be 
the  equivalent  for  chicken.''  So  he  orders  "gallinoso" 
with  a  complacence  born  of  a  problem  happily  solved. 

The  waiter  simply  stares  and  waits  patiently. 

"  'Gallinoso'  doesn't  go,  then."  Ashley  looks  the  bill 
of  fare  over  again.  The  most  attractive  item  is  "salchi- 
chas  con  aroz,"  but  he  does  not  dare  risk  that.  Finally  a 
happy  thought  occurs  to  him. 

"Todos!"  he  orders.  "Todos!  Todos!"  The  waiter, 
with  a  grin  of  intelligence,  hurries  away  and  Ashley 
heaves  a  sigh  of  relief.  "Great  word,  'todos,' "  he  solilo 
quizes.  "Most  significant  word  in  the  language.'' 


A   SPANISH   BILL   OF   FARE.  191 

It  is  effective,  at  least,  for  the  waiter  arrives  with  a 
little  of  everything  that  the  kitchen  affords  and  Ashley 
manages  to  make  out  a  meal. 

Meanwhile  he  has  noticed  that  his  efforts  at  Spanish 
have  vastly  entertained  a  gentleman  who  sits  at  the  table 
beyond  and  facing  him.  Particularly  broad  was  his  smile 
when  the  order  for  "gallinoso"  was  given.  As  Jack  leis 
urely  sorts  out  the  most  appetizing-looking  of  the  array 
of  greasy  viands,  he  remarks:  "If  you  were  as  hungry  as 
I,  senor,  my  attempts  to  secure  a  breakfast  might  strike 
you  as  being  more  tragic  than  humorous." 

"I  meant  no  offense,"  replies  the  senor.  "You  would 
yourself  smile  if  you  knew  what  'gallinoso'  is." 

"So?    What  may  it  be,  an  octopus  or  a  mule?" 

"Almost  as  bad  as  either.    It  is  a  turkey  buzzard." 

"Ah,  yes;  they  were  probably  just  out  of  turkey  buz 
zards.  Oh,  well,  I'll  get  the  hang  of  the  language  before 
I  leave  Cuba." 

"Undoubtedly.  It  is  easy  of  acquisition.  You  have, 
I  assume,  provided  yourself  with  a  phrase-book." 

"A  magnificent  affair.  It  contains  every  possible 
phrase  except  the  ones  I  have  occasion  to  use." 

The  two  finish  their  repast  about  the  same  time,  and  as 
they  stroll  out  upon  the  veranda  to  enjoy  the  long,  strong 
cigar  that  inevitably  follows  a  Cuban  breakfast  the  senor 
remarks: 

"You  are  an  American,  I  judge." 

"New  York,"  is  the  terse  response. 

"Have  you  been  in  Cuba  long?" 

"About  two  hours." 

"Indeed?  I  was  not  aware  that  any  steamers  arrived 
to-day." 

"Because  of  the  blockade,  eh?  But  I  dropped  in  on 
the  cruiser  America." 

"You  are  of  the  service?" 

"No;   I  am  just  a  plain  American  citizen." 

"Well,  senor,  this  is  hardly  a  desirable  time  for  Ameri 
cans  or  others  to  visit  Cuba." 

"An  eminently  proper  time  for  one  in  my  line  of  busi 
ness,"  replies  Ashley.  "I  am  a  newspaper  correspondent." 


192  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

The  senor  looks  the  young  man  over  critically.  "Your 
profession  is  not  regarded  with  especial  favor  at  present 
by  the  Spanish  Government,"  he  says. 

"I  understand  so,"  drawls  Ashley.  "Newspaper  men 
have  an  unpleasant  habit  of  stating  facts,  something  the 
government  is  not  particularly  anxious  to  have  abroad." 

A  flush  of  annoyance  mounts  the  senor's  face,  and  on 
the  left  cheek  Ashley  for  the  first  time  notices  a  small, 
crescent-shaped  scar. 

"Aha!"  he  thinks.  "This  gentleman  rather  answers 
my  friend  Barker's  description  of  the  party  who  left  New 
York  with  the  fair  Mrs.  Harding." 

"The  Government  has  no  desire  to  conceal  facts,"  as 
serts  the  senor,  with  some  warmth,  "but  it  naturally  seeks 
to  prevent  the  dissemination  of  false,  exaggerated  or 
malicious  reports.  What  journal  do  you  represent, 
senor?" 

Ashley  tenders  his  card.  The  senor  glances  at  it  and 
smiles  half-derisively.  "The  Hemisphere!  I  had  that 
very  journal  in  mind,"  he  says. 

"My  paper  must  be  excused  from  feeling  flattered, 
then." 

"It  was  only  a  week  or  so  ago,"  continues  the  senor, 
"that  I  read  in  your  paper  a  sensational  interview  with  a 
visionary  enthusiast,  which  was  a  little  more  exaggerated 
and  absurd  than  the  average." 

"That  was  before  you  left  New  York,  probably,"  ven 
tures  Ashley,  and  the  senor  shoots  a  glance  at  him  from 
a  pair  of  keen  black  eyes.  "You  refer  to  the  interview 
with  Don  Manada/'  goes  on  Ashley.  "I  had  the  pleasure 
of  placing  the  distinguished  Cuban's  views  before  the 
public." 

"I  am  not  surprised,"  comments  the  senor,  with  quiet 
sarcasm. 

"In  other  words  you  consider  me  a  man  who  would 
deliberately  put  forth  false,  exaggerated  or  malicious  re 
ports." 

"I  did  not  say  so,  senor.  I  presume  you  are  typical  of 
your  profession." 

"And  I  believe  I  am.     Our  journal,  like  every  other 


A   SPANISH   BILL   OF   FARE.  193 

decent  paper,  prints  the  news.  If  it  were  to  investigate 
every  dispatch  that  comes  to  it  day  by  day  there  would 
be  precious  little  information  for  the  reader  who  turns 
to  it  each  morning.  If  an  injustice  is  occasionally  done, 
the  paper  is  ever  willing  to  rectify  its  error  and  make  all 
proper  amends.  You  must  naturally  expect  the  Ameri 
can  newspapers  to  favor  the  dispatches  received  from  in 
surgent  sources." 

"Why,  pray?" 

"For  the  reason  that  little  dependence  can  be  placed 
upon  the  statements  of  the  opposition.  In  fact,"  smiles 
Ashley,  "the  situation  approximates  somewhat  the  con 
dition  intimated  in  a  joke  now  going  the  rounds  of  the 
press.  A  Spanish  captain  in  surrendering  to  superior 
numbers  or  prowess,  craves  one  boon  at  the  hands  of  his 
conqueror.  'What  is  it?'  asks  the  latter.  'Please  an 
nounce  the  fact,'  requests  the  Spanish  captain,  'that  I 
have  won  an  overwhelming  victory.' " 

The  senor  fails  to  see  anything  amusing  in  the  jest. 
"Do  you  intend  to  remain  at  Santiago?"  he  asks. 

"For  the  present.  The  righting  appears  to  be  prin 
cipally  at  this  end  of  the  island.  Later  I  may  push  on  to 
Havana." 

"There  has  been  more  than  one  instance  of  expulsion 
of  foreign  correspondents,  senor." 

"So  I  am  told.  Well,  I  shall  do  my  duty,  as  well  as  I 
know  how.  I  naturally  sympathize  with  the  Cubans, 
but  I  shall  not  permit  my  sympathies  to  lead  me  to  color 
any  reports  of  the  war's  progress.  If  a  battle  occurs  to 
morrow  and  the  government  forces  are  victorious,  the 
simple  facts  in  the  case  will  be  forwarded,  without  further 
comment  than  is  required  to  make  the  story  interesting. 
And  if  the  Cubans  win,  the  same  impartiality  will  char 
acterize  my  dispatch.  I  expect  the  same  fair  play  that  I 
extend.  Is  that  not  reasonable?" 

"Well,  at  any.  rate,  I  like  your  frankness,"  says  the 
senor,  with  something  approaching  good  humor.  "I  also 
like  America  and  admire  its  people.  Do  your  duty  as 
you  understand  it,  Senor  Ashley,  and  should  your  zeal  as 


194  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

a  correspondent  lead  you  into  difficulty  perhaps  I  may  be 
of  service  to  you." 

"Thank  you,"  acknowledges  Jack.  "But  with  my 
present  limited  means  of  identifying  you,  I  should  be 
more  likely  to  be  garroted  or  shot  before  I  could  send 
you  word." 

The  senor  smiles.  "I  am  Gen.  Murillo,5'  he  says. 
"Adios,  Senor  Ashley."  And  with  a  courtly  bow  the 
Spanish  gentleman  takes  himself  off. 

"So,"  muses  Ashley,  looking  after  the  retreating  figure. 
"Gen.  Juan  Murillo,  the  chief  of  staff  attached  to  the 
captain-general,  is  the  patron  of  the  beautiful  Harding. 
I  remember  the  Hemisphere  noted  his  presence  in  New 
York.  My  lady's  services  must  be  booked  for  something 
out  of  the  ordinary  spy  business.  Murillo  is  in  Santiago ; 
so  probably  is  she,  but  if  this  city  is  her  base  of  opera 
tions  she  is  likely  to  sail  pretty  close  to  the  wind. 

"Now,  where  on  earth  is  Barker?"  wonders  Ashley. 
"Probably  at  the  other  end  of  the  island,  while  the  ob 
jects  of  his  quest  are  at  this  end.  The  Semiramis  rests 
serenely  on  the  bosom  of  the  bay,  and  Miss  Hathaway  and 
Messrs.  Felton  and  Van  Zandt  are  either  aboard  of  her 
or  are  somewhere  about  the  city.  I  believe  I'll  go  out 
to  the  yacht  and  settle  the  question  in  my  mind." 

And  he  does.  He  is  rowed  out  over  the  blazing  sea 
by  a  sun-cured  barquero  and  climbs  to  the  deck  of  the 
Semiramis. 

"Mr.  Van  Zandt?"  repeats  Capt.  Beals,  in  response  to 
Ashley's  inquiry.  "Left  yesterday,  sir:  Where?  Ha 
vana,  I  believe  the  destination  was." 

"And  his  passengers?"  ventures  Ashley.  "I  am  a  friend 
of  theirs,"  he  explains  to  Mr.  Beals. 

"His  passengers  went  with  him,"  the  latter  tells  him. 

Ashley  is  about  to  return  to  shore  when  he  hears  an 
exclamation  and  he  sees  coming  toward  him  Don  Rafael 
Manada,  the  distinguished  member  of  the  Cuban  revolu 
tionary  society. 

"Dios  mio!  Senor  Ashley,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you," 
exclaims  the  volatile  Manada,  embracing  him  warmly. 
"What  brings  you  here?'' 


A   SPANISH   BILL   OF   FARE.  195 

"Business,  my  dear  Don  Manada.  I  am  at  present 
officiating  as  a  war  correspondent.  Will  you  not  come 
ashore  and  take  dinner  with  me?" 

"A  thousand  thanks,  Senor  Ashley;  but,"  with  a  smile 
intended  to  be  significant,  "I  believe  it  would  be  wise  for 
me  to  remain  here  for  the  present." 

"By  the  way,"  says  Ashley,  "you  recollect  that  inter 
view  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  Hotel  a  week  or  so  ago?" 
Manada  nods  smilingly.  "Well,  I  met  a  gentleman  to-day 
who  spoke  rather  slightingly  of  the  views  which  you 
therein  expressed.  Perhaps  you  know  him.  Gen.  Mu- 
rillo." 

"Murillo!"  cries  the  Cuban.    "Ha!    Is  he  in  Santiago?" 

"He  was  half  an  hour  ago." 

"Was  he  alone?    That  is,  was  he  not  accompanied " 

"By  the  fair  Mrs.  Harding?"  supplies  Ashley. 

Manada's  face  flushes.    "Ah,  you  know  her?"  he  says. 

"Slightly,"  returns  Jack.  "No;  Mrs.  Harding  was  not 
with  the  general,  though  she  may  be  in  the  neighborhood. 
They  left  New  York  together.  Now,  Don  Manada,  hav 
ing  imparted  some  information  to  you,  I  should  esteem  it 
a  great  favor  if  you  would  reciprocate."  Ashley  glances 
about  and  notices  that  they  are  out  of  hearing.  "I  will 
not  ask  you  why  you  happen  to  be  on  the  Semiramis,  as 
I  have  no  disposition  to  pry  into  your  affairs,  but  I 
should  like  to  know  how  Mr.  Felton  and  Miss  Hathaway 
came  to  be  aboard  of  the  yacht?" 

Manada  shrugs  his  shoulders.  "I  have  not  an  idea," 
he  says.  "An  hour  before  the  Semiramis  sailed  they  were 
driven  to  the  pier  in  company  with  the  owner  of  the 
yacht.  Where  they  came  from  I  cannot  say." 

"Did  they  appear  to  be  well  acquainted  with  one  an 
other?" 

"Very  nearly  strangers,  I  should  say.  Senor  Felton 
kept  his  stateroom  during  nearly  all  the  voyage  and 
seemed  to  avoid  Senor  Van  Zandt." 

Ashley  is  now  getting  some  information  of  decided 
interest.  "And  Miss  Hathaway?  Did  she  appear  to 
share  the  distrust  or  dislike?" 


196  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Quite  the  contrary.  They  were  together  about  all  the 
time." 

"Now,  Don  Manada,  there  is  one  query  I  should  like 
to  put  to  you." 

"Come,"  smiles  Manada,  "I  can  guess  .what  your  ques 
tion  is  to  be." 

"I  will  save  you  the  trouble  and  ask  it.  As  a  man  of 
years  and  experience,  of  keen  discernment  and  calm 
conclusions,  what  should  you  say  were  the  precise  rela 
tions  existing  between  Phillip  Van  Zandt  and  Louise 
Hathaway?" 

Manada  appears  to  reflect  deeply.  Then  he  says,  with  a 
gravity  belied  by  the  twinkle  in  his  eyes:  "Serious,  my 
dear  Senor  Ashley;  very  serious.'' 

"Thank  you,"  responds  Ashley.  "Well,  I  believe  I'll 
go  ashore  and  get  better  acquainted  with  the  natives.  I 
hope  to  see  you  again,  Don  Manada.'' 

"I  shall  probably  be  Here  until  the  yacht  leaves,  senor. 
Adios." 

As  Ashley  is  borne  shoreward  he  digests  the  informa 
tion  extracted  from  his  Cuban  friend. 

"So  far  as  Miss  Hathaway's  tender  regard  is  con 
cerned,  I  appear  to  be  a  rank  outsider,"  he  soliloquizes. 
"But  I  have  the  consolation  of  knowing  that  I  did  not 
permit  myself  to  fall  in  love  with  her.  Rather  a  melan 
choly  consolation,  but  philosophy  was  invented  for  just 
such  cases  as  this. 

"And  Van  Zandt.  Well,  Barker  can  doubt  as  much 
as  he  pleases,  but  I  will  stake  my  reputation  as  a  sooth 
sayer  that  Van  Zandt  and  Ernest  Stanley  are  one  and 
the  same  man.  And  if  Phillip  Van  Zandt  is  not  a 
Nemesis,  stalking  on  the  trail  of  his  prospective  victim 
or  victims,  then  I  am  indeed  a  prophet  unworthy  of  honor 
in  'mine  ain  countree'  or  in  the  world  at  large." 


A  CAFE   QUARREL.  197 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

A  CAFE  QUARREL. 

"I  suppose  this  is  the  Madison  Square  of  Santiago," 
remarks  Jack  Ashley,  as  he  notes  approvingly  the  bril 
liant  spectacle  which  the  plaza  affords,  now  that  the  tropic 
night  is  atoning  for  the  enervating  heat  of  the  tropic 
afternoon.  Santiago,  like  all  Cuban  cities,  wakes  up 
measurably  early,  bustles  about  for  three  hours  or  so,  and 
then  dozes  or  fans  itself  until  the  sun  drops  into  the  sea 
and  night  comes  with  scarcely  a  shadow  of  twilight. 

And  then  Santiago  wakes  again  with  a  start,  and  for  a 
few  more  hours  laughs  and  chatters,  promenades  and 
flirts  until  about  10  o'clock,  when  the  curtain  falls,  not  to 
rise  again  until  the  sun  is  well  up  the  morning  sky. 

The  nightly  gathering  on  the  plaza  has  been  tersely 
described  as  "a  scene  of  shoulders,  arms,  trains,  jewels 
and  cascarilla." 

The  women  monopolize  the  plaza  and  the  men  the 
cafe,  the  latter  a  simple  interior,  a  mere  loafing-place  for 
the  Cuban,  whose  capacities  as  an  idler  are  the  result  of 
many  years'  practice  in  the  gentle  art  of  doing  nothing. 

Into  one  of  the  cafes  that  border  the  panorama  of 
gayety  strolls  Ashley.  The  place  is  crowded,  but  over  in 
the  farthest  corner  he  sees  a  table  at  which  only  one 
person  is  seated.  Toward  this  he  threads  his  way,  but 
when  almost  there  his  progress  is  impeded  by  a  party  of 
four  who  are  taking  up  more  space  than  the  law  of 
equality  allows. 

"Pardon  me,"  remarks  Jack,  as  he  brushes  past  the 
chair  of  an  unamiable-appearing  individual  in  undress 
military  attire.  The  latter  moves  reluctantly  and  growls 
something  which  Ashley  suspects  is  not  complimentary, 
and  as  he  drops  into  a  seat  he  asks  the  gentleman  across 
the  table:  "Do  you  speak  English,  sir?" 

"Occasionally,"  is  the  brief  rejoinder. 


198  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Then  would  you  oblige  me  by  translating  the  remark 
of  the  chap  whose  repose  I  just  disturbed?" 

"It's  of  no  consequence,"  replies  the  other.  "An  im 
pertinence  upon  Americans.  The  feeling  against  that 
people  is  very  bitter  in  Santiago  just  now.  The  United 
States  is  suspected  of  encouraging  practically  as  well  as 
morally  the  present  insurrection." 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  go  over  and  punch  his  head," 
observes  Ashley.  "His  suspicions  might  be  better 
grounded." 

"It  would  be  a  waste  of  time  and  perhaps  lead  to  a 
general  row.  He  is  only  a  Spanish  captain  who  has  in 
vested  his  title  with  more  importance  than  would  suffice 
for  the  entire  service.  Spanish  captains  are  as  plentiful 
as  Kentucky  colonels." 

"You  speak  by  the  card,"  laughs  Ashley,  as  he  orders 
a  glass  of  jerez  and  a  cigar.  "Your  English,  too,  is  as 
pure  as  a  New  Yorker's — or  perhaps  I  should  say  as  un- 
foreign.  Pure  English  is  not  a  drug  in  the  New  York 
market." 

"I  have  resided  in  New  York,  as  well  as  other  parts 
of  the  United  States.  But  after  a  short  residence  on  this 
island  a  man  drifts  into  the  indolence  and  shiftlessness  of 
the  natives  and  loses  much  of  his  identity." 

"He  does  not  lose  his  Americanism,  I  hope." 

"No;  the  same  thrill  comes  over  him  when  he  sees  the 
most  beautiful  of  all  flags  streaming  out  on  the  breeze, 
and  with  it  is  increased  his  sense  of  the  outrageous 
wrongs  which  the  Cuban  has  suffered  from  generation  to 
generation." 

Ashley  has  been  looking  his  acquaintance  over  with 
much  interest,  and  the  result  of  his  "sizing  up"  is  as 
follows: 

Age,  about  Ashley's  own;  above  the  medium  height, 
athletic  of  build,  and  straight  as  the  proverbial  arrow ; 
general  air  denoting  decision,  dash,  and  a  bit  of 
recklessness.  His  garments  are  dark  and  somewhat 
travel-worn,  and  on  his  head,  pulled  down  well 
over  his  eyes,  he  wears  a  soft  hat  that  borders  on  the 
sombrero. 


A   CAFE   QUARREL.  199 

Just  now  he  is  scowling  at  the  party  of  four  near  by, 
who  are  making  merry  apparently  at  the  expense  of  the 
two  young  men. 

"As  I  said  before/'  observes  Ashley,  "if  you  will  kindly 
translate  the  remarks  of  yonder  chaps  it  will  afford  me 
considerable  satisfaction  to  call  them  to  order.  Ah,  if 
I  could  only  tell  them  in  Spanish  what  I  think  of  them 
in  English/'  he  adds,  recollecting  an  old  opera-bouffe 
jest. 

Ashley's  acquaintance  is  evidently  making  an  effort  to 
keep  his  temper,  but  his  resentment  is  apparent  in  the 
flash  of  his  eyes  and  the  red  spot  in  each  cheek. 

"By  Jove!"  suddenly  reflects  Ashley,  "perhaps  our 
military  friend  understands  English.  I'll  try  him."  Then 
to  the  apparent  leading  spirit  ol  the  quartet,  who  has  just 
delivered  himself  of  a  sally  that  vastly  amuses  his  com 
panions,  Ashley  leans  over  and  drawls:  "Pardon  me, 
senor,  am  I  the  subject  of  your  mirth?" 

The  Spaniard  may  understand,  but  he  makes  no  sign. 
The  quartet  set  down  their  glasses  and  stare  at  the  self- 
possessed  young  man  who  has  risen  and  walked  to  their 
table  and  whose  mild  blue  eyes  run  over  the  party  in 
calm  inquiry.  And  the  young  man  notes  that  the  time- 
killers  for  many  tables  around  have  ceased  their  chatter 
for  the  moment  and  are  watching  curiously  the  progress 
of  the  colloquy. 

"I  have  reason  to  suspect,"  goes  on  Ashley,  "that  you 
are  making  a  beastly  nuisance  of  yourself,  and  unless  you 
are  anxious  for  a  good  American  thrashing  I  would 
advise  you  to  keep  a  civil  tongue  from  now  on.  If  you 
don't  understand  that  I'll  knock  it  through  your  head  in 
short  order." 

The  reply  is  a  volley  of  red-hot  Castilian,  but  Ashley 
is  saved  the  trouble  of  attempting  to  comprehend  it.  For 
at  this  moment  a  long  arm  reaches  by  him  and  the 
Spanish  captain  is  dealt  a  slap  across  the  mouth  that 
transforms  his  teeth  for  an  instant  into  castanets. 

Then  there  is  confusion.  The  quartet  spring  to  their 
feet  and  one  of  them  seizes  a  bottle.  But  Ashley  grips 
the  uplifted  arm  with  a  wrist  of  steel  and  remarks  in  tones 


200  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

that  carry  conviction:  "Easy,  my  friend,  or  I'll  throw  you 
through  the  side  of  the  house." 

The  idlers  in  the  cafe  crowd  about  the  combatants  and 
the  proprietor  rushes  up  and  protests  against  the  disorder. 

The  Spanish  captain  and  Ashley's  friend  glare  at  each 
other,  and  the  latter,  after  pronouncing  the  words  "Hotel 
Royal"  with  a  significance  appreciated  by  his  antagonist, 
slips  his  arm  through  Ashley's  and  draws  him  from  the 
cafe. 

"Whither?"  queries  Jack,  as  they  proceed  down  the 
street 

"To  the  Hotel  Royal.  I  am  stopping  there  for  the 
night.  And  you?" 

"Same  cheerful  hostelry.    Is  it  the  worst  in  Cuba?" 

"The  worst  and  the  best  They  are  all  off  the  same 
piece." 

"Will  you  come  up  to  my  room?"  asks  he  of  the  black 
eyes,  when  the  hotel  is  reached.  "We  shall  doubtless  be 
waited  upon  presently." 

"By  our  Spanish  friend?" 

"By  his  representative,  more  likely." 

"But  how  is  he  to  locate  you?"  questions  Ashley.  "No 
pasteboards  were  exchanged.'' 

His  companion  smiles  sardonically.  "Capt.  Raymon 
Huerta  and  I  are  not  strangers,"  he  says. 

Even  as  he  speaks  there  is  a  rap  at  the  door  and  as  it 
is  thrown  open  in  strides  one  of  the  Spanish  quartet 

"Well,  Senor  Cardena,"  says  the  young  man  with  the 
black  eyes,  glancing  at  the  bit  of  pasteboard  in  his  hand, 
"what  is  your  pleasure?'' 

"What,  Senor  Navarro,  you  may  expect,"  replies  Car 
dena,  declining  stiffly  the  proffered  chair.  "Capt.  Huerta 
demands  satisfaction  for  the  insult  offered  to  him." 

"Not  only  offered,  but  delivered,"  mutters  Ashley,  and 
he  returns  in  kind  Cardena's  impertinent  glance.  "So 
my  unknown  friend's  name  is  Navarro,"  he  thinks. 

"You  may  convey  to  Capt.  Huerta  my  willingness  to 
afford  him  the  desired  redress/'  says  Navarro.  "How 
will  sunrise,  on  the  beach  below  the  city,  answer?" 

"I  am  authorized  to  make  the  necessary  arrangements. 


A   CAFE   QUARREL.  201 

What  you  have  proposed  will  be  satisfactory.  And  the 
weapons?" 

"Pistols,  I  suppose;  I  am  provided  with  one." 

"'Hold  on,"  puts  in  Ashley.  "I  have  just  the  article. 
Excuse  me  a  moment,  gentlemen."  Repairing  to  his 
room  he  extracts  from  his  trunk  two  superb  Smith  & 
Wesson  38-caliber  revolvers,  and  these  he  submits  to 
Cardena  and  Navarro.  Senor  Cardena  professes  himself 
to  be  satisfied  with  the  weapons  and,  with  a  perfunctory 
"Adios,"  he  withdraws. 

When  he  has  gone  Navarro  tosses  his  arms  impatiently 
and  murmurs:  "What  a  fool  I  am." 

"All  men  are  or  have  been  at  some  period,"  Ashley  as 
sures  him.  "But  what  gives  rise  to  your  present  self- 
accusation?" 

"The  thought  that  I  permitted  my  temper  to  play  the 
mischief  with  my  judgment,"  is  the  gloomy  reply.  "A 
man  has  the  right  to  risk  his  own  life,  but  not  the  life,  or 
what  is  dearer  than  life,  of  those  whose  interests  he  is 
intrusted  with.'' 

"See  here,"  Ashley  gently  protests,  "if  there  is  any 
fighting  to  be  done  why  not  let  me  have  the  job?  I 
began  the  row " 

"And  I  finished  it.  No,  my  friend,  this  affair  must  go 
on  to  the  bitter  end.  Although,  as  you  rightly  suspected, 
you  were  the  ostensible  object  of  the  remarks  of  the  party 
at  the  cafe,  they  were  in  reality  directed  toward  me.  It 
was  inevitable  that  Capt.  Huerta  and  I  should  cross, 
though  I  might  have  to-night  avoided  a  meeting  which 
would  better  be  left  to  the  future.  May  I  request  you  to 
second  me  in  the  meeting?" 

"Assuredly,  Senor  Navarro.  That  is  your  name,  I 
judge?" 

"Yes;  Emilio  Navarro — quite  Spanish,  you  see,"  with 
a  peculiar  smile.  "And  your  name?" 

"Jack  Ashley;  residence,  New  York;  occupation,  news 
paper  man;  paper,  the  Hemisphere;  ever  heard  of  it?" 

"The  newspaper  is  not  a  stranger  to  me.  Pardon  me 
a  few  minutes,"  says  Navarro,  and  he  occupies  himself 


202  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

in  writing  a  somewhat  lengthy  letter,  which  he  seals, 
without  addressing,  and  hands  to  Ashley. 

"Ashley,  you  are  a  man  of  honor,''  he  says,  laying  one 
hand  upon  the  newspaper  man's  shoulder.  "Promise  me 
that  if  anything  happens  to  me  to-morrow  you  will  de 
liver  that  letter  to  a  name  I  will  whisper  to  you." 

"I  shall  do  so  with  profound  regret,  sir.    The  name?" 

"Don  Manuel  de  Quesada.  He  resides  in  the  Pueblo 
de  Olivet,  on  the  edge  of  Santos,  four  miles  west  of 
Santiago." 

Ashley  places  the  letter  in  his  pocket.  "I  will  not  fail 
you,  if  the  occasion  for  my  services  should  arise.  But 
unless  Huerta  is  more  familiar  with  the  American  re 
volver  than  I  believe  him  to  be,  I  shall  have  the  happiness 
of  returning  this  document  to  you  after  you  have  filled 
him  full  of  leaden  satisfaction.  How  are  you  on  the  shoot, 
anyway?" 

Navarro  smiles  grimly.  "I  have  hit  a  playing  card  at 
fifty  yards,"  he  says. 

"Oh,  well;  that's  close  enough  markmanship.  I  am 
beginning  to  feel  sorry  for  Huerta." 

"Save  your  sympathy.  I  shall  not  kill  him.  And  now, 
friend  Ashley,  I  believe  I'll  go  to  bed.  I  have  been  riding 
all  day  and  I  am  as  tired  as  a  dog.  At  daylight  we  start." 

"At  daylight  it  is.  It  is  not  too  late  to  accept  my  offer 
to  exchange  places  with  you.  I  can't  hit  a  playing  card 
at  fifty  yards,  but  at  least  I  am  alone  in  the  world,  and, 
barring  a  few  excellent  friends,  would  not  be  especially 
missed.  It  is  as  much  my  quarrel  as  yours,  you  know." 

"My  dear  Ashley,"  says  Navarro,  with  much  emotion, 
"I  am  deeply  sensible  of  the  goodness  of  heart  that 
prompts  your  offer,  but,  I  repeat,  this  affair  must  pro 
ceed  as  it  has  begun." 

"Well,  good-night  to  you,  then,"  says  Ashley,  and  he 
goes  off  to  bed,  wondering  what  manner  of  man  is  he 
who  speaks  of  a  thrill  at  the  sight  of  the  most  beautiful 
of  all  flags  streaming  out  upon  the  breeze,  and  yet  claims 
the  distinctly  Spanish  name  of  Emilio  Navarro. 


JUANITA.  203 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

JUANITA. 

The  sun  is  creeping  up  the  range  of  hills  when  Ashley 
and  Navarro  leave  the  Hotel  Royal  and  set  forth  at  a 
smart  pace  for  the  meeting  with  Capt.  Raymon  Huerta. 
Ashley  is  in  his  usual  good  spirits,  and  the  enlivening 
influence  of  his  society  is  appreciated  by  Navarro,  whose 
thoughts  are  plainly  of  a  dejected  nature. 

Half  a  mile  or  more  down  the  beach  that  stretches  east 
of  the  city  three  men  are  in  waiting.  Two  of  them  are 
Capt.  Huerta  and  Senor  Cardena;  the  third  is  evidently 
a  surgeon. 

The  preliminaries  for  the  exchange  of  shots  are  quickly 
arranged.  Ashley,  with  the  fifty-yards  range  in  mind, 
proposes  the  comfortable  distance  of  twenty-five  paces, 
andx  Cardena  assents.  Then  the  revolvers  are  handed  out 
and  carefully  scrutinized,  and  Huerta  and  Navarro  face 
each  other  on  the  sands. 

"How's  your  nerve,  old  man?"  Ashley  asks  Navarro, 
as  he  gives  the  latter's  hand  an  encouraging  squeeze. 

"Steady,"  is  the  response,  in  low  tones. 

"Good." 

"Remember  the  letter,"  admonishes  Navarro,  and  as 
Ashley  nods  and  steps  back  the  duelists  signal  that  they 
are  ready. 

A  minute  later  two  shots  startle  into  flight  a  flock  of 
sea  gulls  that  have  been  hovering  along  the  shore. 

With  the  echoes  Capt.  Huerta  staggers  and  is  im 
mediately  taken  in  charge  by  the  watchful  Cardena  and 
the  medico. 

"Not  scratched,  eh?''  Ashley  inquires  of  Navarro. 

"No;  but  the  lead  passed  close  enough  for  comfort. 
Unless  my  aim  was  poor,  Huerta  is  not  seriously  hurt. 
To  have  killed  him  would  have  been  to  invite  serious 
entanglement." 

Nor  is  the  Spanish  captain  in  any  immediate  danger 


204  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

of  parting  with  existence.  The  bullet  has  plowed  through 
the  right  shoulder,  causing  a  ragged  wound  and  a  great 
flow  of  blood,  but  a  few  days  will  put  him  on  his  feet 
again,  the  surgeon  reports  to  Cardena.  Wounded  honor 
is  satisfied  by  the  physical  wound,  and  after  a  brief  an 
nouncement  of  this  fact  and  a  stiff  "Adios"  the  Spaniards 
drive  away,  and  Navarro  and  his  American  friend  are  left 
upon  the  beach. 

"Any  trouble  with  the  authorities  likely?"  Ashley 
queries,  as  the  two  turn  cityward. 

"I  think  not.  Huerta  is  a  thorough-paced  scoundrel, 
but  he  has  never  been  accused  of  being  a  coward  or  an 
informer.'' 

A  great  change  has  come  over  Navarro.  His  eye  is 
bright  and  his  step  elastic  and  he  tells  Ashley,  as  they 
stride  along  in  the  cool  air  of  the  morning,  that  he  is 
terribly  hungry  and  would  appreciate  a  good  breakfast. 

As  good  a  meal  as  Cuba  affords  is  forthcoming,  and  as 
Ashley  suddenly  recollects  the  now  happily  unnecessary 
letter  to  Don  Quesada,  Navarro  tears  it  into  fragments 
and  says  abruptly: 

"Ashley,  amigo,  have  you  ever  seen  the  Pearl  of  the 
Antilles?" 

"No;  I  haven't  been  in  Santiago  quite  twenty-four 
hours  yet.  You  mean  the  insurgent  cruiser?" 

"Ah,  no;  I  mean  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  Cuba.  She 
is  the  daughter  of  Don  Manuel  de  Quesada,  and  is  at 
once  the  joy  and  the  despair  of  half  the  unmarried 
jeunesse  doree  of  Santiago.  Would  you  like  to  meet 
her?" 

"By  all  means.  Next  to  a  good  horse  and  a  trim  yacht, 
I  know  of  nothing  that  interests  me  more  than  a  beautiful 
woman." 

"Good.  I  am  going  out  to  La  Quinta  de  Quesada. 
Hunt  up  a  horse  and  accompany  me." 

Navarro  is  already  provided  with  a  steed,  a  magnificent 
black  animal  that  interests  Ashley  far  more  than  the  pros 
pects  of  the  acquaintance  of  the  Pearl  of  the  Antilles. 
"Came  into  my  possession  yesterday,"  Navarro  tells  him. 
"Isn't  he  a  beauty?" 


JUANITA.  205 

"He  is  that,"  is  Jack's  appreciative  reply.  "If  you  run 
across  his  mate  put  me  in  the  way  of  acquiring  him  and 
I  will  do  my  war  correspondence  in  the  saddle." 

Ashley  succeeds  in  chartering  a  fairly  presentable  beast 
for  the  day,  and  the  two  young  men  set  out  for  Santos 
in  the  best  of  spirits.  They  are  in  no  hurry  and  the  ride 
of  something  over  four  miles  through  El  Valle  de  Bosque 
Cillos,  the  wooded  valley,  occupies  an  hour. 

Passing  through  Santos,  which  is  one  of  the  smallest 
of  villages,  embracing  only  a  jail,  a  church  and  a  score 
of  dwellings,  the  travelers  take  the  road  to  La  Quinta  de 
Quesada,  which  is  located  in  the  center  of  the  Pueblo  de 
Olivet. 

The  Quinta  is  a  square,  two-storied  affair  and  the 
principal  material  in  its  construction  is  coral  stone.  The 
inevitable  and  grateful  veranda  stretches  around  three 
sides  and  an  air  of  quiet  luxury  is  evident  in  the  spacious 
house  and  its  attractive  surroundings. 

As  Navarro  and  Ashley  ride  slowly  up  the  shaded  car 
riage  way  and  turn  suddenly  in  sight  of  the  quinta,  the 
first  objects  that  greet  Jack's  vision  are  two  young  people 
in  one  of  the  hammocks  on  the  veranda.  A  young  man's 
arm  encircles  a  young  lady's  waist  and  the  attitude  of  the 
pair  suggests  either  the  relations  of  lovers  or  of  brother 
and  sister.  They  start  up  in  some  confusion  upon  the 
advent  of  a  stranger  and  come  forward  to  greet  Navarro. 
When  the  latter  dismounts  the  young  man  embraces  him 
warmly  and  Navarro,  as  he  rests  one  arm  affectionately 
about  the  youth's  shoulders,  says  to  Ashley:  "My 
younger  brother,  Don  Carlos."  Then  he  turns  to  the 
young  lady: 

"Juanita,  I  want  you  to  know  my  friend,  Senor  Jack 
Ashley  of  New  York.  Senor  Ashley,  La  Senorita  de 
Quesada." 

Ashley  has  slid  from  his  horse  and  his  acknowledg 
ment  of  the  introduction  is  rather  less  debonair  than 
usual;  because,  as  he  confesses  afterward  to  himself,  he 
is  somewhat  confused  by  the  beauty  of  the  young  woman, 
who  gives  him  her  hand  and  tells  him  that  the  quinta 
has  no  friends  more  welcome  than  Don  Emilio. 


206  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

And  here  is  an  outline  of  Juanita  de  Quesada,  the  Pearl 
of  the  Antilles,  as  sketched  rapidly  but  indelibly  upon  the 
tablets  of  Jack  Ashley's  memory: 

She  is  20  or  thereabouts,  and  is  considerably  below  the 
medium  height.  The  proportions  of  her  slender  yet  full 
form  are  as  perfect  as  nature  ever  molds.  Her  face  is 
oval,  and  her  complexion  a  soft,  creamy  olive.  Evi 
dences  of  her  race  are  in  the  lead-black  hair,  the  dark, 
dreamy  eyes  of  liquid  fire,  the  rather  large,  tremulous 
mouth,  with  its  scarlet  lips,  and  the  completing  perfection 
of  Cuban  loveliness,  the  dainty  little  feet  with  the  incom 
parable  arches.  All  Cuban  women  are  not  beautiful,  but 
as  Ashley  looks  upon  the  present  picture  he  decides  that 
the  imperfections  of  her  sisters  are  amply  compensated 
for  by  the  dazzling  loveliness  of  the  Senorita  de  Quesada. 
"She  is  glorious,"  he  thinks;  and  then:  "I  wonder  if  she 
knows  anything." 

Hardly  less  striking,  though  dissimilar  in  character,  is 
the  beauty  of  Don  Carlos  Navarro.  He  is  a  slender 
youth,  with  dark-brown  eyes  and  curly  hair,  and  if  it  were 
not  for  the  effeminacy  of  his  regular  features  he  would 
receive  the  critical  approval  of  the  New  Yorker.  As  it 
is,  Ashley  confesses  that  Juanita  and  Don  Carlos  are  the 
handsomest  young  pair  he  ever  set  eyes  upon,  and  he 
wonders  what  may  be  the  relationship  existing  between 
them.  For  Carlos  is  no  more  Spanish  in  appearance  than 
his  brother  Emilio. 

"Where  is  Don  Quesada?"  asks  Navarro,  when  the 
party  have  disposed  themselves  upon  the  veranda. 

"With  his  books  and  papers,  as  usual,"  replies  Carlos, 
with  a  significant  glance  at  his  brother.  "Come,  I  will 
take  you  to  him.  He  will  be  overjoyed  to  greet  you.  It 
is  nearly  two  weeks,  Emilio,  since  we  last  saw  you." 

"And  it  may  be  much  longer  than  two  weeks  ere  you 
see  me  again,"  says  Navarro,  as  he  follows  Carlos  into  the 
house. 

Ashley  finds  himself  vastly  interested  in  the  young  lady 
with  whom  he  has  been  left  tete-a-tete.  He  learns  that 
she  has  not  a  near  relative  save  her  father  (Carlos  must 
then  be  her  lover) ;  that  she  is  no  stranger  to  the  United 


JTJANITA.  207 

States,  having  resided  in  New  York  two  years;  that  she 
loves  America  and  everything  American;  that,  were  it 
not  that  her  father's  interests  necessitated  a  residence  in 
Cuba,  she  would  like  to  live  always  in  America;  and 
much  more  information,  imparted  in  a  quiet,  dignified 
manner  which  Jack  is  positive  was  acquired  by  her  short 
stay  in  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  enter 
prising. 

All  too  soon  comes  the  interruption  of  luncheon,  and 
Ashley  is  presented  to  Don  Manuel  de  Quesada.  Jack 
takes  a  good,  square  look  at  the  tall,  spare,  elderly  man 
who  grasps  his  hand  warmly  and  tells  him  that  he  is 
always  proud  and  happy  to  meet  an  American. 

Don  Quesada  is  a  typical  Cuban  in  appearance;  his 
bearing  is  distinguished  and  his  manner  partakes  of  the 
dignity  and  repose  of  his  daughter.  But  there  is  a  certain 
weakness  about  the  mouth  that  Ashley  at  once  notes. 

However,  Don  Quesada  is  cordiality  itself,  and  after 
lunch  the  three  men  adjourn  to  the  library  for  a  smoke, 
Carlos  and  Juanita  taking  themselves  off  for  a  ramble 
through  the  park. 

The  conversation  drifts  naturally  to  a  discussion  of  the 
patriotic  uprising  which  has  almost  attained  the  propor 
tions  of  a  revolution  that  promises  to  be  as  successful  as 
the  struggle  for  independence  of  the  American  colonists. 
The  talk  is  general,  and  Ashley  surprises  his  companions 
by  remarking  abruptly: 

"By  the  way,  Don  Quesada,  before  I  left  America  it 
was  hinted  to  me  by  an  influential  member  of  the  Cuban 
revolutionary  society  that  the  President  of  the  Provisional 
Republic  of  Cuba  is  a  resident  of  Santiago." 

"Ah?"  says  Quesada,  inquiringly. 

"That  is,  I  suppose  Santos  may  be  considered  a  part  of 
Santiago." 

Quesada  and  Navarro  look  at  each  other  meaningly. 

"In  other  words,  that  this  President  is  none  other  than 
yourself,  Don  Quesada,"  continues  Ashley;  and  without 
waiting  for  a  reply  to  this  direct  speech  he  goes  on: 

"I  tell  you  only  what,  as  I  say,  was  intimated  to  me  in 
the  strictest  confidence.  I  shall  not  ask  for  a  confirmation 


208  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

or  a  contradiction;  I  am  not  thinking  of  interviewing 
you.  I  am  an  American  and  the  representative  of  an 
American  newspaper.  As  such,  I  am  supposed,  while  in 
Cuba,  to  maintain  a  neutrality.  I  had  intended,  before  I 
met  Don  Navarro,  to  call  upon  you  in  a  professional 
capacity,  but  now  I  find  myself  your  guest.  It  is  for  you 
to  say  what  is  your  pleasure  in  the  matter." 

Don  Quesada  studies  keenly  the  face  of  the  war  corre 
spondent,  but  reads  only  sincerity  in  the  frank  blue  eyes. 
Then  he  looks  at  Navarro  and  the  latter  extends  his  hand 
to  Jack. 

"Ashley,  I  believe  we  understand  one  another,"  he  says. 
"There  is  no  need  of  further  explanations.  If  there  is 
any  interviewing  to  be  done,  you  can  operate  on  me. 
I  believe  Don  Quesada  will  willingly  allow  me  to  sub 
mit  to  the  ordeal." 

"I  will  be  merciful,"  smiles  Ashley.  "But  before  I  pro 
ceed  further,  permit  me  to  present  the  vouchers  for  my 
discretion  and  reliability,"  and  he  passes  over  a  letter 
which  relieves  Don  Quesada  of  any  possible  distrust 
of  his  acquaintance  of  a  few  hours. 

It  is  late  in  the  afternoon  when  Navarro  announces  that 
he  must  depart.  Ashley  is  courteously  invited  to  enjoy 
for  as  long  a  time  as  he  may  care  to  the  hospitality  of  the 
quinta,  but  duty  demands  his  presence  at  Santiago  until 
he  gets  his  affairs  into  shape.  However,  he  promises  to 
call  frequently  while  he  is  in  this  part  of  the  country,  a 
pledge  he  anticipates  much  pleasure  in  fulfilling.  And  as 
he  rides  away  with  'Navarro  his  usually  cool  head  is 
disturbed  by  speculations  as  to  the  probable  relations 
between  Don  Carlos  Navarro  and  Juanita  de  Quesada. 

"By  the  way,  Navarro,"  he  says,  suddenly  to  his  com 
panion,  "is  there  any  likelihood  of  my  ever  chancing 
upon  El  Terredo,  the  mysterious  revolutionary  leader 
whom  we  were  discussing  this  afternoon?" 

"Possibly,"  is  the  reply.  The  travelers  have  reached 
a  fork  in  the  road,  about  half-way  between  Santos  and 
Santiago. 

"My  path  lies  yonder,"  says  Navarro,  pointing  to  the 
north.  "We  must  part  here." 


ONE   WAY    TO    GET    TO    CUBA.  209 

"Well,  take  care  of  yourself/'  remarks  Ashley,  gripping 
the  extended  hand. 

Navarro  rides  slowly  away,  but  he  has  not  gone  five 
yards  when  he  checks  his  horse  and  turns  in  his  saddle. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  El  Terredo?''  he  asks,  with  a 
smile. 

"It  would  satisfy  my  curiosity,"  is  Ashley's  prompt 
response. 

"Then,  my  friend,  take  your  first  look,  and  the  last  for 
many  days,  if  not  forever.  For  I  am  El  Terredo!" 

Waving  his  hat  with  a  graceful  sweep  Navarro  rides 
away  to  the  mountains. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

ONE  WAY  TO  GET  TO  CUBA. 

"Whew!''  For  the  nineteenth  time  John  Barker  gives 
utterance  to  the  expressive  exclamation,  as  he  mops  his 
perspiring  forehead. 

The  detective  is  seated  in  the  parlor  car  of  the  Florida 
express,  which  has  just  left  Jacksonville,  and  is  being 
whirled  along  toward  Tampa  Bay. 

He  soon  indulges  in  a  nap,  while  the  train  rumbles  on, 
by  the  scattered  negro  huts,  with  their  ebon-hued  occu 
pants  drawn  up  in  solemn  array  to  watch  the  flying  cars, 
through  the  dense  forests  of  moss-entwined  trees,  across 
the  trestle-spanned  marshes  and  mud-colored  rivers. 

Barker  is  dreaming  of  a  hand-to-hand  encounter  with 
Cyrus  Felton,  wherein  the  latter  has  succeeded  in  clasp 
ing  the  handcuffs  about  his  (Barker's)  neck  and  is  slowly 
but  surely  rendering  futile  his  breathing  apparatus,  when 
the  porter's  voice  calling  out  "Tampa  Bay"  recalls  him  to 
his  senses. 

The  single  hotel  at  Tampa  Bay,  Barker  subsequently 
finds,  is  not  a  half-bad  institution,  judged  by  the  midnight 
inspection,  and  ascertaining  from  the  clerk  that  the 


210  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

steamer  for  Key  West  does  not  sail  until  3  o'clock  the  fol 
lowing  afternoon,  the  detective  retires  m  the  confident 
belief  that  he  has  overtaken  Mrs.  Harding  at  least. 

Barker  is  right  in  his  surmise.  He  has  nearly  finished 
his  breakfast  the  next  morning,  when  the  striking  figure 
of  Mrs.  Harding  enters  the  dining-room  and  is  escorted 
by  the  obsequious  waiter  to  the  table  at  which  the  de 
tective  is  seated.  The  latter  lingers  long  over  his  coffee 
and  muffins,  while  he  improves  the  opportunity  of  study 
ing  his  vis-a-vis. 

"Handsome  as  a  queen,"  is  his  conclusion,  as  the  glori 
ous  black  eyes  glance  idly  into  his.  But  there  is  a  tinge 
of  melancholy  in  her  face,  a  preoccupation  in  her  man 
ner,  that  does  not  escape  the  observation  of  the  detective, 
and  at  which  he  wonders. 

"It  cannot  be  that  the  military  chap  has  given  her  the 
go-by,"  he  thinks. 

He  has  not,  for  at  this  moment  the  soldierly  form  of 
the  Spaniard  enters  the  room  and  he  is  directed  to  a  seat 
beside  Mrs.  Harding. 

"Nothing  very  lover-like  in  their  greeting,"  ruminates 
Barker,  as  the  two  exchange  salutations.  "Since  they  are 
to  be  fellow-passengers  on  the  boat  to  Key  West  and 
Havana  I  will  postpone  my  interview  until  then."  Barker 
strolls  out  upon  the  hotel  veranda. 

"How  long  does  it  take  to  run  to  Havana?"  he  inquires, 
casually,  of  the  porter. 

"About  a  ten  hours'  sail  from  Key  West,  when  the 
steamers  are  running,"  he  is  told. 

"When  the  steamers  are  running?  Are  they  not  run 
ning  now?'' 

"No,  sir;  they  run  only  as  far  as  Key  West  now,  since 
the  blockade  was  declared." 

Barker  paces  slowly  up  and  down  the  veranda. 

"Well,  I  must  be  hoodooed,"  he  mutters;  "that  does 
settle  it.  Here  I've  raced  1,700  miles  to  head  off  my 
game,  only  to  be  foiled  by  a  measly  blockade.  I  can't 
stand  it  to  charter  a  ship,  and  it  looks  mightily  as  if  Cyrus 
Felton  was  going  to  slip  through  my  hands.  But  how  are 
my  lady  and  the  Spanish-looking  chap  to  get  there?  I 


ONE   WAY    TO    GET    TO    CUBA.  211 

will  go  to  Key  West  at  any  rate.  There  may  be  some 
way  to  cross  the  channel  from  there." 

The  detective  is  not  in  cheerful  spirits  as  he  boards 
the  steamer,  but  he  feels  a  shade  of  satisfaction  while 
noting  Mrs.  Harding  and  her  cavalier  ascend  the  gang 
plank  just  before  the  signal  for  departure  is  given. 

"We  will  have  a  little  tete-a-tete  by  and  by,  my  lady," 
he  murmurs.  But,  greatly  to  the  detective's  disappoint 
ment,  Mrs.  Harding  does  not  emerge  from  her  stateroom 
until  the  steamer  has  sighted  the  yellow  stretch  of  sand 
that  marks  the  entrance  to  the  harbor  of  Key  West. 

"Well,  we  shall  either  be  fellow-voyagers  again,  or  'on 
a  tropical  isle  we'll  sit  and  smile,' ''  reflects  Barker,  philo 
sophically. 

Determined  that  he  will  not  lose  sight  of  the  charming 
Mrs.  Harding  again,  Barker  loiters  about  the  steamer 
until  she  trips  across  the  gang-plank,  the  last  passenger 
to  disembark.  Her  traveling  companion  has  preceded 
her  nearly  half  an  hour,  and  Barker  wonders  again  if  they 
have  parted  company.  Their  baggage,  he  observes,  is 
still  on  the  pier,  and  even  as  Mrs.  Harding  steps  ashore 
Barker  sees  the  Spaniard  coming  rapidly  toward  her. 
He  conducts  her  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  wharf,  where 
is  moored  a  neat  little  steam  launch,  manned  by  a  num 
ber  of  sailors  in  the  uniform  of  the  Spanish  navy.  The 
baggage  upon  which  Barker's  watchful  eyes  are  fixed  is 
quickly  conveyed  aboard  the  launch,  Mrs.  Harding  fol 
lows,  still  escorted  by  the  military-appearing  stranger, 
and  a  moment  later  the  little  craft  shoots  out  from 
the  dock  and  makes  for  a  man-of-war  lying  at  anchor  in 
the  harbor  and  flying  the  Spanish  colors. 

Mr.  Barker's  last  opportunity  for  a  tete-a-tete  with 
"my  lady"  has  vanished. 

The  detective  watches  the  launch  until  it  vanishes  be 
hind  the  bow  of  the  warship,  but  words  fail  utterly  to 
express  his  feelings.  He  mechanically  picks  up  his  grip 
and  suffers  himself  to  be  conducted  by  an  enterprising 
Bahaman  to  the  American  Hotel,  picturesquely  sur 
rounded  by  tropical  shrubs  and  plants. 

"Well,  Barker,''  the  detective  communes  with  himself, 


212  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"it  looks  decidedly  as  if  my  lady  possessed  a  slight  advan 
tage  in  having  a  man-of-war  at  her  call.  But  with  all  that 
fleet  of  boats  in  the  harbor  it  does  seem  that  there  should 
be  one  bound  for  Cuba.  How  to  hit  that  particular  one 
is  the  question." 

He  strolls  down  the  broad  street  to  the  harbor  front, 
and  from  a  wharf  wistfully  gazes  at  the  Spanish  man-of- 
war  now  nearly  hull  down  on  the  horizon  bearing  away 
his  fair  fellow-voyager.  A  tanned  and  weather-beaten  son 
of  Neptune  is  making  fast  a  small  sloop,  whose  name 
Barker  notes  with  idle  curiosity  is  emblazoned  in  gener 
ous  letters  on  her  stern,  "Cayo  Hueso." 

"Say,  my  good  fellow,''  he  says,  "you  don't  happen  to 
know  of  any  way  to  reach  Havana,  do  you?  Are  any  of 
these  vessels  likely  to  sail  for  that  port  within  a  day  or 
two?" 

He  of  the  weather-beaten  face  finishes  making  fast  the 
little  sloop  without  answering,  and  then  slowly  turns  and 
looks  at  Barker.  The  gaze  is  a  long  and  searching  one, 
but  apparently  it  is  satisfactory. 

"There's  one  way  to  reach  Cuba,  I  reckon,"  he  says, 
with  a  pronounced  nasal  twang.  "That  is,  if  you  are 
sailor  enough  to  stand  that  sloop  and  wise  enough  to 
keep  your  mouth  shut  on  occasions.'' 

Barker  surveys  the  little  craft  doubtfully.  She  is  of 
perhaps  five  tons'  burden,  and  looks  old  and  risky. 

"I  could  stand  the  sail  if  the  boat  is  seaworthy,  and  I 
am  anxious  to  reach  Havana,"  he  finally  says.  "When  do 
you  sail?" 

"At  6  o'clock.  The  Cayo  don't  go  clear  to  Cuba,  only 
about  half-way  across  the  channel.  But  we  can  put  you 
aboard  another  craft  that  will  land  you  in  Havana.  Got 
any  baggage?" 

Barker  meditates  a  moment.  "How  long  will  it  take 
to  make  the  passage?"  he  inquires. 

"Wall,  if  this  wind  holds  you  ought  to  be  in  Havana 
by  to-morrow  night.  It  will  cost  you — say,  $25.'' 

Barker's  decision  is  made.  "I'll  chance  it,"  he  says. 
"I'll  be  here  at  6  o'clock." 

On  his  return  to  the  Cayo  Hueso,  the  detective  finds 


ONE   WAY   TO   GET    TO    CUBA.  213 

the  crew  of  three  already  aboard  and  his  sailor  friend 
preparing  to  cast  off.    lie  ruefully  surveys  the  small  craft 
and  thinks  of  the  i2O-mile  trip,  but  there  is  no  alternative, 
and  he  clambers  aboard. 

As  the  sails  are  hoisted  Barker  is  amazed  by  the  rate 
at  which  the  little  craft  speeds  out  of  the  harbor.  There  is 
always  a  breeze  on  the  keys,  the  captain  of  the  Cayo  tells 
him. 

Soon  the  sea  begins  to  growl  a  bit  and  Barker  does  not 
like  it.  As  the  breeze  freshens,  the  commotion  beneath 
his  vest  increases. 

"Just  the  kind  of  a  breeze  for  a  run  across,  eh?"  re 
marks  the  man  at  the  tiller,  with  a  voice  that  sounds  to 
Barker  like  the  rasp  of  a  new  saw. 

"I  dunno,"  replies  the  detective,  whose  face  is  rapidly 
becoming  "sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought." 

But  the  little  vessel  continues  to  spin  over  the  waters, 
as  darkness  settles  upon  the  sea. 

The  stars  are  paling  in  the  heavens  and  the  gray  dawn 
is  creeping  athwart  the  sloop,  when  Barker  awakens  from 
a  troubled  nap  and  struggles  into  a  sitting  posture.  He 
sees  only  the  bare  horizon,  the  ocean  lying  black  and 
leaden  and  wrinkled  like  an  old  man's  face.  There  is  no 
boat  in  sight,  he  thinks ;  they  are  not  yet  half-way  to  the 
Cuban  shore. 

But  there  is  a  boat  in  sight.  Hull  down  to  the  east, 
imperceptible  to  his  untrained  eye,  a  delicate  pearl  shaft 
hangs  like  a  pendant  just  on  the  horizon.  For  a  time  it 
seems  dim  and  visionary;  then  even  Barker,  did  he  pos 
sess  sufficient  ambition  to  lift  his  head  again,  could  see  a 
duplicate  of  the  sloop  lazily  crawling  toward  her,  and, 
within  half  an  hour,  come  alongside  the  Cayo  Hueso. 

At  once  certain  mysterious  boxes  and  casks,  chiefly  the 
latter,  are  transferred  from  one  boat  to  the  other.  Then 
Barker  laboriously  and  disconsolately  steps  from  the 
Cayo  Hueso  to  the  strange  boat,  while  his  weather-beaten 
friend  communes  with  the  captain  of  the  latter.  His  des 
tination  is  a  matter  of  supremest  indifference  to  the  de 
tective.  He  manfully  strives  to  hold  up  his  head  while 


214  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

the  exchange  of  salutations  is  made,  fails  and  sinks 
passively  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat. 

The  sun  is  gilding  Maro  castle  as  the  little  craft  enters 
the  harbor  of  Havana. 

"A  remarkably  quick  passage,"  says  the  captain  in 
Spanish,  as  the  sloop  is  being  moored  to  a  dilapidated 
wharf  in  an  obscure  portion  of  the  water  front. 

Barker  struggles  to  his  feet.  "Are  we  in  Havana?"  he 
inquires  in  Spanish,  a  trifle  rusty,  but  still  intelligible. 

"Si,  senor." 

"Thank  heaven!"  is  the  pious  ejaculation  of  the  de 
tective.  "I'll  live  and  die  in  Cuba  before  I'll  every  trust 
myself  in  a  cockleshell  like  that  again." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

A  SOLDIER  OF  CASTILE. 

"Heavens!  They  have  just  sized  up  my  condition  and 
sent  an  ambulance,"  Barker  grunts,  as  his  eyes  rest  for 
the  first  time  on  that  marvel  of  vehicular  construction,  a 
Cuban  volante,  which  the  good-natured  captain  of  the 
sloop  has  secured  for  his  late  passenger. 

But  before  he  clambers  into  the  conveyance  the  de 
tective,  whose  professional  instincts  are  now  awakening, 
ascertains  from  the  driver  that  the  American  steamer 
City -of  Havana  has  not  yet  arrived,  although  due  that 
morning. 

Barker  begins  to  feel  better.  "Things  seem  to  be 
coming  my  way  at  last,"  he  thinks  complacently.  "I'll 
take  no  chances  this  time.  John  Barker,  detective,  will  be 
the  first  to  greet  Cyrus  Felton  when  that  gentleman  steps 
on  Cuban  soil.  Now  for  the  hotel  and  a  bath,  a  visit  to 
the  American  consul  and  then  to  the  wharf  of  the  Red 
Star  Line,  wherever  that  is." 

It  is  a  very  different  individual  from  the  woebegone 
passenger  on  the  little  smuggler  that  three  hours  later 


A    SOLDIER   OF   CASTILE.  215 

lounges  about  the  dimly  lighted  freight  sheds  of  the 
American  Steamship  Line,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  the 
overdue  vessel.  "Richard's  himself  again/'  he  remarks; 
"or  will  be  when  his  long-neglected  appetite  is  appeased. 
I  hope  the  City  of  Havana  will  not  keep  me  up  all  night." 

The  night  wears  on — the  longest,  Barker  assures  him 
self,  with  one  exception,  that  he  ever  knew,  and  the  sun 
is  well  above  the  horizon  ere  his  heart  is  cheered  by  the 
boom  of  a  cannon  on  Moro  castle,  announcing  the  arrival 
of  a  foreign  vessel.  It  is  the  American  liner,  and  by  the 
time  the  various  custom  officers,  summoned  by  the  signal 
gun,  have  arrived  on  the  wharf,  the  steamer  is  being 
moored  to  the  pier. 

Barker  has  taken  a  position  where  he  can  command  a 
view  of  the  gang-plank,  and  with  a  grim  smile  he  awaits 
the  disembarking  of  the  passengers.  There  are  not  many. 
A  few  Havana  business  men,  a  score  or  two  of  Cubans, 
three  or  four  Spanish  officers  and  half  a  dozen  Americans 
cross  the  plank,  and  then  there  is  a  lull  in  the  procession. 

Barker's  smile  fades  and  there  is  a  suspicion  of  anxiety 
in  his  expression  as  the  tall,  slim  form  of  Cyrus  Felton 
does  not  appear. 

"Perhaps  he  is  sick,"  the  detective  thinks.  "I  will  go 
aboard  and  inquire  of  the  purser." 

No;  there  was  no  passenger  on  this  trip  named  Felton, 
that  officer  states,  running  his  eye  down  the  rather  ab 
breviated  passenger  list. 

Barker  stares  vacantly  at  the  purser.  Rapidly  there 
passes  through  his  mind  the  circumstances  preceding  his 
interesting  journey  to  Havana — the  departure  of  Felton 
and  Miss  Hathaway  from  the  St.  James;  his  (Barker's) 
hurried  trip  to  Key  West;  the  unavailing  effort  to  inter 
view  Mrs.  Harding;  the  voyage  in  the  smuggler  to  Ha 
vana  ;  last  night's  long  and  weary  vigil. 

And  Felton  did  not  sail  on  the  City  of  Havana  after  all ! 

Without  a  word  of  thanks  to  the  courteous  purser,  the 
detective  slowly  turns  and  retraces  his  steps.  He  walks 
aimlessly  from  the  wharf,  his  disappointment  for  the  time 
being  too  bitter  for  expression. 

But  John  Barker,  whatever  his  errors  of  judgment,  is 


216  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

a  clear-minded,  persistent  man,  and  after  a  half-hour's 
walk  in  the  enervating  atmosphere  of  a  Havana  midday 
he  pulls  himself  up  with  a  start. 

"Well,"  he  says  as  he  wipes  the  perspiration  from  his 
face,  "I'm  euchred  this  time,  it  appears,  and  must  make 
the  best  of  it.  But  this  is  the  deciding  trick,  and  by 
heaven,"  the  detective  grinds  his  teeth,  "I  will  track  Cyrus 
Felton  down  if  it  takes  the  rest  of  my  life!  I  have  it! 
I'll  see  if  the  son,  Ralph  Felton,  is  actually  here,  as  Ashley 
believes.  If  he  is,  I  will  at  least  have  something  to  show 
for  my  trip  to  this  awfully  hot  hole.  Now  for  something 
to  eat  at  the  grand  hotel  Pasaje,  if  I  can  find  the  way. 
It's  mighty  lucky  I  know  some  Spanish." 

The  shadows  are  lengthening  toward  night  when 
Barker  awakens  from  the  sound  slumber  into  which  his 
''siesta"  after  a  comfortable  meal  has  developed.  He  is 
feeling  greatly  refreshed  and  ready  to  pick  up  again  the 
tangled  threads  of  the  trail  that  he  has  followed  so  far. 

"Now  for  a  little  stroll  about  the  city,  to  see  what  the 
place  is  like,"  he  thinks,  as  he  lights  a  cigar  and  saunters 
down  the  broad  street. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Barker  has  strayed  farther  from  the 
hotel  than  he  realizes  and  has  unwittingly  penetrated  into 
the  most  disreputable  quarter  of  Havana.  For  a  brief 
rest  he  enters  a  cafe,  and  seating  himself  at  a  table  in  a 
corner  of  a  room  orders  a  light  drink,  absent-mindedly 
speaking  in  English. 

Two  dark-browed,  yellow-skinned  Cubans,  who  have 
been  conversing  earnestly  in  low  tones  at  a  table  adjoin 
ing  Barker's,  glower  at  the  newcomer,  but  as  he  gives  his 
order  to  the  waiter  in  English  they  resume  their  inter 
rupted  conversation.  Barker  idly  sips  his  jerez  and  won 
ders  what  Jack  Ashley  will  say  on  receiving  the  letter  he 
left  for  him  in  New  York. 

Suddenly  the  word  "Americano,"  hissed  by  one  of  the 
two  Cubans,  arrests  his  attention  and  he  strains  his  ears 
to  hear  in  what  connection  the  word  was  used.  The  pair 
are  talking  in  low  tones,  but  the  detective's  trained  sense 
is  able  to  comprehend  the  tenor  of  the  conversation. 

The  Cubans  are  discussing  the  assassination  of  some 


A    SOLDIER    OF    CASTILE.  217 

person,  an  American,  and  presumably  that  American  is 
John  Barker! 

The  detective  slips  his  hand  around  to  his  hip  pocket, 
and  as  his  fingers  close  over  the  butt  of  a  38-caliber  pistol 
his  pulse  resumes  its  calm  and  even  beat  and  he  proceeds 
to  make  a  mental  inventory  of  the  prospective  assassins. 

"Absolutely  the  most  villainous-looking  brace  of  cut 
throats  I  ever  saw,"  he  sums  up.  "But  why  should  they 
plot  to  lay  me  out?  Do  they  take  me  for  a  New  York 
millionaire  in  disguise,  and  think  I  carry  a  million  or 
two  around  in  my  pocket?  Ah,  so  you  were  not  the 
distinguished  individual  picked  out  by  the  precious  pair, 
Barker.  It's  some  other  American.  But  who?  And  how 
can  I  manage  to  warn  him  df  his  danger?" 

Barker  rapidly  revolves  the  situation,  while  covertly 
watching  the  Cubans.  He  suddenly  starts,  as  from  words 
uttered  by  one  of  them,  as  they  arise  to  leave  the  cafe,  he 
becomes  aware  that  the  cold-blooded  crime  planned 
within  his  hearing  is  to  be  carried  out  within  the  next 
hour  or  so. 

"There's  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  to  shadow  the  pair," 
he  mutters,  as  he  steps  again  into  the  now  moonlit  street. 

It  is  a  simple  matter  for  the  experienced  detective  to 
keep  the  Cubans  in  sight,  especially  as  they  never  once 
take  pains  to  glance  backward.  They  have  traversed 
several  streets,  when  the  detective  observes  that  they  have 
halted  and  are  apparently  loitering  near  a  larger  and 
rather  more  elaborate  cafe  than  the  majority. 

"So  the  American  is  in  that  cafe,"  reflects  Barker; 
"now,  which  is  the  better  plan,  to  go  in  and  endeavor  to 
pick  out  my  fellow-countryman  and  warn  him,  or  keep 
in  the  rear  of  these  chaps  and  swoop  down  on  them  at 
the  proper  moment?  The  latter  I  guess  is  the  safer. 
We'll  see  what  we  will  see." 

The  wait  is  not  a  long  one.  Evidently  the  Cubans  are 
familiar  with  the  habits  of  the  person  they  are  seeking, 
for  within  fifteen  minutes  a  rather  tall  young  man 
emerges  from  the  cafe,  stopping  a  moment  to  light  a 
cigar,  and  then  starts  down  the  shadowy  street.  Barker, 
after  the  first  glance,  pays  little  heed  to  the  newcomer, 


218  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

for  his  quick  eye  notes  that  he  wears  the  undress  uniform 
of  a  Spanish  officer.  To  his  surprise,  however,  he  per 
ceives  that  the  two  Cubans  are  stealthily  following  the 
man. 

"So  it  is  not  an  American  after  all,"  thinks  Barker,  as 
he  steals  silently  along.  "But  I  can't  stand  back  and  see  a 
human  killed  in  cold  blood,  whatever  his  nationality,  and 
I  won't!" 

It  is  nearly  10  o'clock  now  and  the  street  is  deserted. 
As  the  form  of  the  officer  emerges  into  a  clear  patch  of 
moonlight,  Barker  perceives  that  the  Cubans  have  nar 
rowed  the  distance  that  separates  them  from  their  prey, 
and  he  hastens  to  close  up  the  gap  between  himself  and 
the  trio. 

He  is  not  too  soon.  When  less  than  two  rods  from  the 
Cubans  he  sees  the  flash  of  steel  in  the  hand  of  the  fore 
most  of  the  pair. 

"Look  out!"  Barker's  voice  rings  out  in  English,  loud 
and  clear,  and  with  the  words  he  springs  forward  with  a 
speed  that  rivals  his  sprinting  in  his  football  days. 

"Tackle  low!"  The  whimsical  thought  flashes  through 
his  brain  as  he  clears  the  intervening  space.  And  he 
does.  The  nearest  Cuban  goes  down  with  a  bone-break 
ing  thud,  the  moonlight  glitters  for  a  second  on  some 
thing  bright  in  Barker's  hand,  there  is  a  sharp  click,  and 
the  detective  springs  to  his  feet. 

But  there  is  no  further  need  for  his  services.  The  other 
Cuban  is  speeding  like  the  wind  down  the  street. 

"I  owe  you  one  for  this,  my  friend,"  says  the  cause  of 
the  exciting  episode  in  excellent  English,  as  he  strides  up 
to  Barker  and  warmly  presses  his  hand.  "But  for  your 
timely  shout  I  should  now  be  lying  face  downward  there 
with  the  stiletto  ornamenting  my  back.  But  what  have 
you  done  to  this  scoundrel?  He  lies  like  a  log." 

"Oh,  he'll  be  all  right  in  a  few  moments,"  replies 
Barker,  carelessly  glancing  down  at  the  prostrate  figure. 
"He  went  down  so  hard  the  wind  was  knocked  out  of 
him.  Then  I  handcuffed  him.  Are  there  any  policemen 
handy?  If  so,  we  can  notity  them  and  have  him  ar 
rested." 


A   SOLDIER   OF   CASTILE.  219 

"Never  mind  the  police.  The  soldiers  will  take  care 
of  this  cutthroat,"  returns  the  other.  "But  come  to  my 
quarters  while  I  endeavor  to  express  adequate  thanks  for 
your  service  to-night.  They  are  near  by  and  I  will  send 
a  detail  of  men  for  this  rascal." 

"Oh,  never  mind  the  thanks,"  Barker  replies  carelessly. 
"It  was  nothing.  I  happened  to  overhear  the  pair  plan 
ning  to  knife  some  one,  and  I  followed  to  see  the  fun. 
Only  I  must  admit  I  thought  from  their  talk  that  their 
intended  victim  was  one  of  my  own  countrymen,  an 
American." 

"So  I  am,  or  was,  by  birth.  But  I  am  now  an  officer  in 
the  Spanish  army,  Capt.  Alvarez,  of  the  staff  of  his  ex 
cellency,  the  captain-genera!." 

It  is  as  well  that  a  fleecy  cloud  at  the  moment  dims  the 
moonlight,  for  Barker,  trained  to  control  his  emotions 
though  he  is,  cannot  avoid  a  sudden  start. 

Alvarez!    the  man  beside  him  is  Ralph  Felton! 

"Ah,  here  we  are,"  continues  the  self-expatriated  Amer 
ican,  as  he  stops  before  a  large  mansion  facing  the  plaza. 
'Excuse  me  a  moment  while  I  send  a  man  or  two  to  look 
after  your  handcuffed  friend." 

Alvarez  hurries  to  the  rear  of  the  building  and  return 
ing  shortly  conducts  Barker  to  a  comfortably  furnished 
room  on  the  first  floor.  "My  sleeping-room,"  he  explains. 
"Now,  tell  me  how  you  happened  to  overhear  that  pre 
cious  pair  planning  to  assassinate  me." 

Barker  briefly  details  the  events  leading  up  to  the  at 
tack  on  Alvarez,  the  latter  listening  with  knitted  brows, 
but  without  comment. 

"Well,  now  of  yourself,"  he  says,  when  Barker  has  con 
cluded. 

Barker  hesitates  a  moment,  the  while  studying  the  face 
before  him.  "Cyrus  Felton's  son,  or  his  double"  he 
thinks.  Then  he  takes  a  sudden  resolution.  "I  am  a 
soldier  of  fortune,"  he  laughs.  "I  came  down  here  to  see 
the  country  and  a  little  fighting  maybe.  My  name  is 
Parker;  residence,  the  world.  What  are  the  chances  for 
a  commission  in  the  Spanish  army?" 

"Hardly  good  for  a  commission.    But" — Alvarez  looks 


220  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

Barker  over  shrewdly — "I  should  like  to  do  you  a  service, 
and  may.  What  do  you  say  to  becoming  my  orderly?'' 

Barker's  eyes  flash.  He  appears  to  deliberate  for  a 
moment,  and  finally  says:  "I  would  like  nothing  better." 

"Good!  To-morrow,  then,  will  see  you  enrolled  as  a 
soldier  of  Spain!" 


CHAPTER  XXXIX  . 
ASHLEY  TAKES  THE  FIELD. 

The  big,  white  moon  that  rolls  through  "heaven's  ebon 
vault"  and  pales  the  glow  of  the  southern  cross  looks 
down  upon  two  young  people  on  the  veranda  of  El 
Quinta  de  Quesada.  They  have  retired  to  the  shadows 
for  purely  healthful  reasons,  of  course,  as  a  baleful  influ 
ence  is  attributed  to  the  direct  rays  of  the  tropic  moon. 

"You  leave  Santiago  to-morrow?"  asks  Juanita,  in 
tones  of  real  regret. 

"At  the  first  streak  of  daylight,"  Ashley  replies,  light 
ing  the  inevitable  Cuban  cigar. 

"And  when  shall  we  see  you  again?" 

"Ah,  quien  sabe?  I  attack  Spanish  quite  boldly  now 
you  see.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  no  definite  idea  as 
to  when  I  shall  return.  Sniffing  the  battle  afar  off  has 
become  monotonous.  I  am  impatient  to  hear  the  rattle 
of  musketry  and  the  swish  of  the  machete." 

"You  will  not  expose  yourself!"  cries  the  senorita. 

Ashley  laughs  softly.  "I  shall  not  lead  any  desperate 
charges,"  he  says.  "For  my  position  demands  a  show  of 
neutrality,  no  matter  how  much  I  may  sympathize  at 
heart  with  the  patriots.  There  is  fighting  all  along  the 
line  between  here  and  Havana,  and  I  want  a  chance  to 
describe  a  Cuban  battle  from  personal  observation.  Be 
sides,  I  like  a  good  fight,  and  I  shall  probably  itch  to  sail 
in  and  help  the  under  dog,  if  said  dog  happens  to  be  on 
the  same  side  as  my  sympathies." 

"But   when   such   a   chivalrous    feeling    seizes    you, 


ASHLEY    TAKES    THE    FIELD.  221 

restrain  it;  think  of  your  friends,  if  not  of  yourself,"  ad 
jures  Juanita,  gravely. 

"Ah,  well,  they  would  be  the  only  mourners  if  I  stopped 
a  Spanish  bullet.  I  haven't  a  relative  in  the  world  except 
an  amiable  aunt  in  the  western  states,  who  threatens  to 
some  day  turn  over  to  me  the  squandering  of  her  small 
fortune." 

"No  relative  except  an  aunt?"  repeats  Juanita,  sympa 
thetically.  "No  one  to  weep  for  you?" 

"Oh,  the  boys  in  the  office  would  wear  crepe  for  a 
week,  and " 

"Don't  talk  so  lightly  on  such  a  dreadful  subject,''  re 
proves  Juanita.  "I  am  sure  I  should  feel  a  great  deal 
more  distress  than  'the  boys  in  the  office,'  and  I  have 
known  you  only  a  fortnight." 

"Thank  you,  senorita.  You  may  feel  sure  that  I  shall 
studiously  avoid  being  borne  off  a  Cuban  battleground 
upon  my  shield." 

"You  will  keep  on  through  to  Havana?'' 

"Unless  circumstances  bar  my  way,  I  shall  follow  along 
the  line  of  the  railroad,  stopping  wherever  night  over 
takes  me,  and  resuming  my  journey  whenever  I  feel  like 
it.  I  have  no  definite  plans.  And,  now,  senorita,  I  be 
lieve  I  will  say  Adios.  It  is  getting  along  toward  9 
o'clock,  and  the  proprietary  genius  of  my  hotel  looks 
upon  belated  guests  somewhat  askance.  I  have  made 
my  adieus  to  Don  Manuel  and  Don  Carlos,  and  it  only 
remains  to  express  my  regret  at  saying  farewell  to  you, 
senorita." 

Juanita  watches  him  while  he  untethers  his  horse,  and 
as  he  turns,  bridle  in  hand,  to  lift  his  hat,  she  comes  from 
the  veranda  and  puts  her  hand  in  his. 

"You  will  surely  return?"  she  asks. 

"As  surely  as  a  bad  penny." 

"Then  I  will  not  say  farewell." 

"Au  revoir  it  is,  then,"  says  Jack.  He  lifts  the  little 
hand  to  his  lips,  and  then  with  rather  unnecessary  abrupt 
ness  he  mounts  his  horse  and  rides  away  in  the  moonlight. 

"Hang  it!"  he  mutters,  when  out  of  sight  of  the  quinta; 
"that  makes  at  least  half  a  dozen  times  that  I  have  pulled 


222  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

myself  together  just  in  season  to  avoid  making  a  fool  of 
myself.  Perhaps  my  vigilance  would  be  relaxed  if  I 
could  ascertain  the  precise  relations  existing  between 
Juanita  and  Carlos.  I  never  saw  two  persons  more 

wrapped  up  in  each  other,  and  yet  Juanita "  He 

stops  and  repeats  the  name,  dwelling  upon  each  syllable. 
"Pshaw!  I  believe  I  am  getting  soft  in  my  head!  G'lang, 
old  nag,  or  we  won't  get  to  Santiago  before  midnight.'' 

It  is  the  5th  of  April.  Ashley  has  been  in  Santiago 
two  weeks,  and  during  the  fortnight  he  has,  in  one  way 
or  another,  kept  his  paper  well  supplied  with  news.  He 
has  also  found  many  opportunities  to  run  out  to  the 
quinta,  and  the  welcome  has  always  been  so  warm,  and 
the  adios  so  sincerely  regretful,  that  he  has  begun  to 
wonder  whether  his  interest  in  the  beautiful  daughter  of 
Don  Manuel  de  Quesada  is  not  lapping  over  the  shadowy 
line  that  separates  friendship  from  a  sentiment  which 
poets  contend  to  be  more  powerful  and  philosophers  re 
gard  as  infinitely  weaker. 

Ashley  has  seen  Murillo  several  times  since  his  arrival, 
and  between  the  Spanish  general  and  the  newspaper  man 
something  of  friendship  has  grown.  Murillo  left  for  Ha 
vana  two  days  before,  to  join  the  captain-general,  who,  it 
is  reported,  proposed  to  transfer  his  headquarters  to  San 
tiago. 

When  Jack  reaches  his  hotel  he  is  informed  that  a 
horse  has  been  left  for  him  at  the  stables. 

"For  me?"  he  inquires  in  surprise,  as  he  goes  out  and 
looks  upon  a  magnificent  iron-gray  beast  fit  for  a  king 
on  coronation  day. 

For  Senor  Ashley,  he  is  assured.  It  was  brought  dur 
ing  the  afternoon.  Jack  looks  the  acquisition  over,  and 
then,  turning  to  the  trappings  which  hang  near  by,  he 
discovers  a  bit  of  paper  attached  to  the  saddle.  On  it  is 
written  the  single  word  "Navarro"  and  the  mystery  is 
cleared. 

"By  Jove!  This  is  generous/'  he  says.  "But  I'm 
blessed  if  I  know  where  to  send  my  thanks." 

Dawn  finds  Ashley  in  the  saddle  and  he  makes  quite  a 
brave  appearance  as  he  rides  away.  He  is  clad  in  a  suit 


ASHLEY   TAKES   THE   FIELD.  223 

of  dark  corduroy,  with  long  riding  boots  and  white-cloth 
helmet  and  as  he  looks  his  costume  over  complacently 
he  remarks:  "If  my  boots  were  a  bit  newer  and  shinier 
I'd  make  a  good  running  mate  for  the  war  correspondent 
in  'Michael  Strogoff.'  It  is  a  manifest  libel  to  christen 
this  horse  Rozinante,"  patting  affectionately  the  neck  of 
his  sleek  charger,  "but  as  he  is  a  Spanish  steed  he  must 
suffer  from  recollections  of  Cervantes.  So  Rozinante 
it  is." 

Before  the  sun  has  become  too  aggressive  to  admit  of 
riding  in  comfort  Ashley  has  covered  some  twenty  miles 
and  has  passed  through  two  villages,  wretched  little  settle 
ments  that  have  ever  existed  in  their  present  squalor  for 
generation  upon  generation.  At  the  second  of  these  he 
stops  for  breakfast.  The  meal  is  no  worse  than  he  expect 
ed,  and  after  he  has  finished  his  coffee  he  hunts  up  a  shady 
spot  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and,  hitching  his  horse, 
he  smokes  and  dozes  until  the  late  afternoon  breezes  from 
the  gulf  suggest  a  resumption  of  his  journey.  At  night 
he  tarries  at  the  house  of  a  farmer.  They  call  them 
"farmers"  in  Cuba.  They  burn  charcoal,  raise  a  few 
vegetables  and  peddle  milk  and  eggs. 

The  next  day  is  very  much  like  the  first,  except  that 
Ashley  introduces  the  variation  of  sleeping  all  the  after 
noon  and  riding  the  greater  part  of  the  night.  And 
when  weariness  finally  overtakes  him  he  camps  on  the 
edge  of  a  vast  canefield. 

The  third  day  is  equally  monotonous.  He  begins  to 
think  that  his  expedition  is  to  be  utterly  devoid  of  ad 
venture.  He  has  seen  no  signs  of  either  insurgents  or 
Spanish  soldiery,  nor  have  the  natives  along  his  route. 
As  evening  approaches  he  rides  into  the  decent-sized 
town  of  Jibana,  on  the  line  of  the  railway  between  Ha 
vana  and  Santiago. 

Somewhat  to  his  surprise  he  learns  that  the  only  hotel 
in  the  place  is  kept  by  an  American.  Landlord  Carter 
proves  to  be  a  decent  sort"  of  chap  and  his  hostelry  is 
clean  and  inviting.  After  a  really  good  supper  Ashley 
turns  in  early;  he  is  thoroughly  tired,  having  ridden 
farther  than  on  either  of  the  previous  days. 


224  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

He  wakes  moderately  early  and  has  a  brief  ante-break 
fast  chat  with  Landlord  Carter. 

"Have  I  heard  of  any  fighting  around  here?"  repeats 
Carter,  in  response  to  Ashley's  inquiry.  "No,  but  I  ex 
pect  to  see  some  most  any  day.  There  is  a  report  that  a 
large  number  of  insurgents  are  encamped  in  the  moun 
tains  within  a  score  of  miles  of  Jibana  and  the  natives 
hereabout  are  becoming  restless.  A  rebel  victory  or  two 
would  send  the  whole  of  this  part  of  the  province  into 
the  insurgent  fold.  By  the  way,  a  party  of  three  Ameri 
cans  arrived  last  evening  after  you  had  gone  to  bed.'' 

"So?     What  are  they  doing  here  and  who  are  they?" 

"They  are  going  out  to  some  sugar  plantations  near 
here  to-day.  I  haven't  learned  their  names  yet,  as " 

At  this  moment  the  newspaper  man  hears  a  familiar 
feminine  voice  exclaim  in  tones  of  the  utmost  astonish 
ment.  "Why,  Mr.  Ashley!"  and  he  turns  to  see  Louise 
Hathaway  standing  in  the  hotel  doorway. 

Though  somewhat  dazed  mentally,  Jack  lifts  his  hat 
and  remarks,  as  if  he  had  seen  her  but  yesterday,  "Good- 
morning,  Miss  Hathaway.  You  are  an  early  riser." 

"You  don't  appear  a  bit  surprised  to  see  me,"  says  the 
young  lady,  as  she  gives  him  her  hand ;  "while  I  am  com 
pletely  bewildered  at  meeting  an  American  friend  in  the 
midst  of  this  wilderness." 

"Oh,  this  is  a  very  small  world,"  remarks  Ashley. 

"Now,  do  tell  me  how  you  happen  to  be  in  Cuba.  I 
am  dying  with  curiosity,"  declares  Louise. 

"Then  I  will  explain  in  all  haste.  You  should  be  able 
to  guess  from  my  military  bearing  and  the  fierce  aspect 
which  this  helmet  gives  me  that  I  am  a  war  correspon 
dent.  I  have  been  in  Cuba  a  little  over  a  fortnight.  I 
arrived  at  Santiago  three  days  after  the  Semiramis 
dropped  anchor  and  was  told  that  you  had  gone  to  Ha 
vana." 

"But  how  did  you  know  we  sailed  from  New  York  on 
the  Semiramis?  My  note,  left  at  the  St.  James  hotel, 
stated  that  we  were  going  to  Cuba  on  the  steamship 
City  of  Havana." 

"Exactly.     And  I  supposed  that  you  had,  until  I  saw 


ASHLEY    TAKES    THE    FIELD.  225 

you  on  the  deck  of  the  Semiramis  when  the  yacht  was 
running  away  from  Uncle  Sam's  cruiser  off  Sandy 
Hook." 

And  now  Miss  Hathaway  relates  the  effort  which  she 
and  Mr.  Felton  made  to  reach  the  pier  before  the  City 
of  Havana  sailed  from  New  York.  When  she  tells  Ash 
ley  of  the  adventure  of  the  blockade  on  West  Broadway 
and  of  the  subsequent  appearance  of  Phillip  Van  Zandt 
and  his  offer  to  place  the  Vermonters  on  Cuban  soil, 
Ashley  twists  his  mustache  reflectively. 

Miss  Hathaway's  story  is  interrupted  by  the  announce 
ment  of  breakfast,  and  five  minutes  later  Ashley  makes 
one  of  a  party  of  four  at  a  table  in  the  cozy  dining-room. 

Cyrus  Felton  greets  the  newspaper  man  with  grave 
surprise,  and  Jack's  keen  eyes  note  that  the  ex-president 
of  the  Raymond  national  bank  is  looking  bad.  He  is 
paler  even  than  when  he  saw  him  last,  in  New  York 
about  a  month  ago,  and  in  the  gray  eyes  has  settled  an 
expression  of  vague  unrest. 

Phillip  Van  Zandt  acknowledges  the  introduction  with 
his  accustomed  reserve,  and  for  an  instant  the  eyes  of  the 
two  young  men  meet  in  a  searching  gaze  of  mutual  in 
quiry. 

From  the  conversation  that  ensues,  Ashley  gathers 
that  most  of  the  time  which  the  trio  have  spent  in  Cuba 
has  been  passed  in  and  about  Havana,  and  that  they 
are  now  en  route  to  Santiago,  stopping  off  at  Jibana  to 
visit  a  sugar  plantation  in  which  Mr.  Felton  has  an  inter 
est.  And,  what  is  more  to  the  point,  Ashley  learns  that 
the  Semiramis  is  not  to  leave  Santiago  for  at  least  an 
other  fortnight.  This  information  comes  from  Van  Zandt. 
Mr.  Felton  and  Miss  Hathaway  do  not  appear  to  have 
any  definite  plans. 

For  his  part,  Ashley  tells  them  that  he  intends  to  push 
on  to  Havana,  and  knows  not  when  he  will  return  to 
Santiago,  if  at  all. 

But  as  he  watches  Mr.  Felton,  Van  Zandt  and  Miss 
Hathaway  set  forth,  after  breakfast,  for  the  sugar  plan 
tation,  which  lies  east  of  the  town,  he  tells  himself  that 
he  will  return  to  Santiago  before  many  days. 


22G  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"I  must  keep  my  eye  on  those  two  gentlemen,"  he 
mutters,  "and  trust  to  Providence  to  throw  Barker  in 
my  way,  if  indeed  he  has  not  already  struck  the  trail. 
By  the  stars  that  shine,  but  there  is  a  strangely  assorted 
trio,  unless  I  am  clear  off  my  reckoning.  Nemesis  is 
trailing  his  inevitable  victim  with  said  victim's  father, 
and  sooner  or  later  they  must  meet  What  is  the  town 
beyond  here?"  Ashley  asks  Landlord  Carter. 

"Cadoza,"  the  innkeeper  informs  him. 

"I  believe  I'll  jog  along  to  that  point,  anyhow,"  Jack 
decides;  "and  if  nothing  turns  up  in  the  line  of  excite 
ment  within  twenty-four  hours,  then  back  to  Santiago." 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THE  APPEARANCE  OF  THE  SERPENT. 

Half  a  dozen  hours  from  the  time  that  Jack  Ashley 
mounts  his  newly  acquired  Rozinante  and  rides  forth 
from  Santiago  on  his  journey  into  the  west,  a  visitor 
arrives  at  Le  Quinta  de  Quesada. 

The  Don  and  his  daughter  are  seated  on  the  veranda, 
the  former  dreaming  of  the  day  when  Cuba  shall  be  free, 
the  latter  of  the  blue-eyed  young  man  who  at  the  moment 
is  many  miles  on  his  journey  toward  Havana  and  is  ex 
pressing  his  opinion  of  Cuban  roads  in  comical  apos 
trophes,  rivaling  the  natural  extravagance  of  Spanish 
conversation. 

"A  visitor,"  remarks  Quesada,  as  the  crunching  of 
carriage  wheels  sounds  in  the  driveway,  and  Juanita's 
day  dreams  are  abruptly  terminated  by  the  appearance 
of  a  vehicle,  not  a  Cuban  every-day  volante,  but  a  four- 
wheeled  affair,  the  best  that  Santiago  can  provide. 

The  carriage  draws  up  before  the  quinta,  the  driver 
opens  the  door  with  a  profound  obeisance,  and  out  steps 
a  lady  whose  radiant  beauty  rather  dazzles  the  .Cuban 
gentleman,  who  advances  with  easy  grace  to  meet  her. 


THE  APPEARANCE  OF  THE  SERPENT.    227 

For  Don  Quesada,  though  well  past  the  meridian  of  life, 
is  not  without  susceptibility  to  feminine  charms. 

"I  have  the  pleasure  of  addressing  Don  Manuel  de 
Quesada,  I  believe?''  says  the  fair  visitor  in  English. 

"The  pleasure  is  mine,  madam." 

"I  am  under  the  embarrassment  of  introducing  my 
self,"  with  a  smile  and  a  glance  from  a  pair  of  liquid  black 
eyes  that  instantly  win  for  her  the  good-will  of  the  mas 
ter  of  the  quinta.  She  tenders  a  bit  of  cardboard,  and 
as  the  Don  receives  it  with  a  bow,  she  explains:  "When 
I  left  New  York  I  had  a  letter  of  introduction  from  a 
gentleman  who  has  the  honor  of  your  acquaintance" — 
she  glances  at  the  coachman  standing  near,  and  lowers 
her  voice — "Don  Rafael  Manada.'' 

"Ah!"  murmurs  Quesada,  regarding  his  visitor  with 
new  interest. 

"But  I  must  have  left  it  among  my  effects  at  Santiago. 
I  certainly  have  not  lost  it,  as  I  was  too  thoroughly  in 
structed  as  to  the  importance  of  keeping  its  contents  a 
secret,"  the  lady  finishes,  with  a  meaning  smile. 

Quesada  extends  his  hand  and  presses  slightly  the 
dainty  palm  laid  therein.  "Any  of  Don  Manada's  friends 
are  welcome  here,"  he  says.  "I  am  happy  to  place  the 
quinta  at  your  disposition,  and  its  occupants  are  yours  to 
command,  madam." 

Quesada  leads  the  way  into  the  house,  whither  Juanita 
has  retired  to  add  a  few  touches  to  her  toilet. 

"You  are  an  American,  Mrs.  Harding,"  ventures  the 
Don,  as  they  pass  through  the  long,  wide  corridor  to 
the  gallery  at  the  rear  of  the  quinta  and  the  lady  is  pro 
vided  with  the  easiest  of  chairs. 

"My  accent  told  you  that  immediately/'  is  the  smiling 
response.  "Yes ;  I  am  the  widow  of  an  American  ship 
owner,  who  left  to  me,  among  other  possessions,  a  sugar 
plantation  somewhere  in  this  fair  isle.  I  had  the  pleas 
ure  of  Don  Manada's  acquaintance  in  New  York,  and 
when  he  heard  that  I  purposed  visiting  Cuba  to  view  my 
possessions,  he  desired  that  I  seek  you,  giving  me  at 
the  same  time  the  letter  of  introduction  which,  as  I  have 
said,  I  have  unfortunately  left  at  my  hotel  in  Santiago. 


228  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

But  perhaps  the  password  which  he  whispered  to  me, 
'Cuba  Libre,'  will  do  as  well.  For  the  cause  of  Cuban 
liberty  has  no  warmer  sympathizer  than  myself,  Don 
Quesada,"  she  adds,  earnestly,  and  the  Don's  countenance 
lights  with  pleasure. 

"Don  Manada  could  have  conferred  no  greater  pleas 
ure,"  he  replies,  "and  I  trust  that  you  will  honor  my 
daughter  and  myself  by  becoming  our  guest,  for  a  few 
days  at  least." 

Isabel's  dark  orbs  snap  with  triumph  not  easily  re 
pressed,  but  she  answers  hesitatingly:  "Thank  you,  but 
I  do  not  see  how  I  can  trespass  upon  your  kindness.  I 
have  not  the  pleasure  of  an  acquaintance  with  the  senor- 
ita,  and " 

"Permit  me  to  remove  that  objection  at  once,"  inter 
poses  Quesada,  as  Juanita  at  the  moment  stands  in  the 
doorway.  "Juanita,  mi  querida,  this  is  Mrs.  Isabel  Hard 
ing,  an  American  lady  and  a  friend  of  Don  Manada, 
whom  you  met  in  New  York.  I  have  invited  her  to 
remain  with  us  for  a  few  days,  or  as  long  as  our  hos 
pitality  may  prove  attractive.  Will  you  not  add  your 
request  to  mine?" 

The  more  mature  and  voluptuous  beauty  of  the  older 
woman  attracts  the  impulsive  Cuban  girl,  and  she  sec 
onds  her  father's  invitation  with  a  sincerity  that  would 
have  won  even  a  lady  who  had  not  come  to  the  quinta 
with  the  deliberate  purpose  of  securing  such  a  proffer  of 
hospitality. 

And  so  the  carriage  is  sent  back  to  Santiago  and 
Isabel  Harding  is  installed  at  the  quinta,  the  surround 
ings  of  which  she  finds  much  to  her  liking.  Juanita  is 
much  charmed  with  her  American  friend,  who  fascinates 
the  impressionable  Cuban  girl  with  her  brilliant  beauty, 
her  wit  and  her  knowledge  of  the  great  world  amid  whose 
pleasures  and  palaces  Juanita  lived  for  two  years,  and 
which  she  hopes  some  day  to  see  again.  The  two  women 
quickly  become  inseparable  and  naturally  Juanita  tells 
Mrs.  Harding  of  her  other  recent  New  York  friend,  Jack 
Ashley.  But  Isabel,  although  she  enjoys,  or  otherwise, 
an  acquaintance  with  that  industrious  young  man,  does 


THE  APPEARANCE  OF  THE  SERPENT.     229 

not  know  his  name,  and  the  adventuress  has  not  even 
the  fear  of  his  reappearance  to  disturb  her  present  se 
renity. 

But  if  the  Don  and  his  daughter  are  charmed  by  their 
guest,  not  so  Don  Carlos,  and  it  is  with  difficulty  that 
that  gentle  youth  conceals  his  dislike.  An  instinctive  dis 
trust  of  the  beautiful  American  takes  possession  of  him, 
and  to  avoid  exhibiting  this  distrust,  which  he  admits  to 
himself  is  unfounded,  he  spends  most  of  his  time  in  soli 
tary  walks  about  the  vast  pueblo  or  in  long  rides  upon 
the  back  of  his  favorite  pony. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  7th  of  April,  two  days 
after  the  arrival  of  Mrs.  Harding  at  the  quinta,  that  lady, 
her  elderly  host  and  his  daughter  are  seated  on  the  veran 
da,  enjoying  the  light  breeze  from  the  gulf  which  ren 
ders  life  in  Cuba  endurable  and  even  attractive  for  a 
few  hours. 

An  interruption  to  the  conversation  comes  in  the  per 
son  of  a  courier,  who  rides  up  to  the  quinta,  delivers  to 
Quesada  a  small  packet  of  papers,  and,  after  a  glass  of 
wine,  departs  as  hastily  as  he  came. 

The  Don  excuses  himself  and  retires  to  his  study.  A 
few  moments  later  he  reappears  and  calls  to  Carlos,  who 
is  coming  up  the  lawn.  Young  Navarro  bows  to  Mrs. 
Harding  and  follows  the  Don  into  the  study. 

"I  have  just  received  important  news/'  says  the  latter. 
"Capt.  Guerra  sends  word  that  a  big  supply  train  was 
dispatched  by  the  captain-general  from  Havana  for  San 
tiago  this  morning  or  last  night.  Is  it  not  to-day  or  to 
morrow  that  Navarro  was  to  be  at  or  near  Jibana?" 

Carlos  nods.     "He  should  certainly  be  there  now." 

Quesada  paces  the  room,  his  brow  knitted  in  thought. 
"If  word  could  be  got  to  him  at  once,"  he  says,  "Dios! 
The  train  might  be  captured.  But  how  to  send  him 
word — there  is  the  obstacle." 

"How  far  is  Jibana  from  Santiago?"  asks  Carlos,  into 
whose  mind  has  come  a  sudden  thought  that  causes  his 
cheeks  to  alternately  flush  and  pale. 

"A  full  day's  journey  by  rail.  No;  I  fear  word  could 
not  be  sent  him  in  time."  • 


230  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"But  if  a  courier  were  to  leave  on  the  early  morning 
train,  could  he  not  reach  Jibana  in  season  to  find  Emilio?" 

"Perhaps.  It  will  take  several  days  for  the  supply 
train  to  make  the  trip,  but  it  will  also  take  us  too  long 
to  find  a  trustworthy  messenger." 

"Do  you  not  consider  me  trustworthy?" 

"You!"  cries  Quesada,  looking  at  the  slender  youth  in 
astonishment. 

"Yes,  Don  Manuel;   I  will  be  the  courier." 

"No,  no;  I  cannot  permit  it.  What  would  Emilio 
say?" 

"He  will  be  too  overjoyed  to  see  me  to  think  of  scold 
ing  you.  There  is  no  danger.  Simply  the  discomfort 
of  the  journey.  I  will  start  in  the  morning." 

Against  his  better  judgment,  Quesada  consents,  and 
as  Carlos  throws  open  the  study  door  the  vision  of  Mrs. 
Harding  flits  by. 

Over  the  teacups  half  an  hour  later  Isabel  tells  Don 
Quesada  that,  if  there  is  a  conveyance  to  be  easily  pro 
cured  at  Santos,  she  believes  she  will  run  into  Santiago 
for  a  day's  shopping.  And  Quesada  informs  her  smiling 
ly  that  if  she  cares  to  arise  with  the  sun  she  may  find 
a  conveyance  in  waiting,  as  Carlos  is  going  to  the  city 
on  business  and  will  undoubtedly  be  charmed  with  her 
society  on  the  short  journey. 


At  Havana  on  the  morning  of  the  8th  of  April. 

With  contracted  brows  and  frowning  face,  the  captain- 
general  of  Cuba  scans  a  mass  of  official  documents  that 
lie  upon  his  desk.  Gen.  Truenos  is  plainly  displeased 
with  the  condition  of  affairs  on  the  island.  When  he 
sailed  from  Cadiz  it  was  to  "put  down  the  rebellion  in 
three  months,"  as  the  Spanish  press  boastfully  asserted, 
but  Truenos  realizes  that  it  is  not  now  a  matter  of  weeks 
or  months,  but  of  years,  ere  the  red  and  yellow  of  Spam 
will  wave  again  unchallenged  over  the  gem  of  the  An 
tilles. 

In  the  meantime,  Gen.  Truenos  gathers  from  the  pa 
pers  before  him  that  some  of  the  matured  plans  of  the 


THE  APPEARANCE  OF  THE  SERPENT.     231 

Spanish  have  been  checkmated  through  treachery  in 
some  quarter,  and  he  is  not  enchanted  with  the  glimpses 
he  has  obtained  of  the  manner  in  which  his  subordinates 
conduct  a  campaign. 

An  officer  enters  the  room  with  a  dispatch  and  the 
captain-general  reaches  impatiently  for  the  missive. 

"Caspita!"  he  growls,  as  he  glances  over  the  contents. 
"Murillo  at  least  is  alive  to  what  is  transpiring  under  the 
very  noses  of  my  generals.  I  wish  that  I  had  more  like 
him."  Then  to  the  officer:  "Send  Gen.  Velasquez  to 
me  at  once." 

As  the  latter  answers  the  summons,  Truenos  hands 
him  the  dispatch,  with  the  query :  "Has  the  supply  train 
left  for  Santiago?" 

"It  left  last  night,  your  excellency." 

"It  must  be  stopped.  As  you  will  see  by  Murillo's  dis 
patch,  the  rebels  have  learned  of  the  train's  departure 
and  a  courier  is  now  en  route  from  Santiago  to  notify 
that  infernal  El  Terredo.  If  that  courier  is  not  inter 
cepted,  the  supply  train  must  be  recalled  or  held.  The 
dispatch  contains  a  description  of  the  rebel  messenger. 
Now,  then,  to  action." 

Truenos  unfolds  a  large  map  of  the  island,  and  as  he 
runs  his  finger  along  the  line  which  indicates  the  rail 
road,  another  dispatch  is  handed  in.  The  captain-general 
tears  it  open  and  reads : 

"Reported  that  El  Terredo  is  encamped  near  Jibana,  with 
a  large  force  of  insurgents.  Alvarez." 

"Ah,  remarks  Truenos.  "This  is  dated  Cadoza.  And 
Cadoza,"  he  consults  the  map,  "is  less  than  a  dozen  miles 
from  Jibana.  Bueno!  For  once  matters  are  dovetail 
ing  to  my  wishes.  The  courier  cannot  reach  Jibana 
before  nightfall,  and  when  he  does  Alvarez  shall  arrest 
him.  Let  the  supply  train  proceed,  Velasquez,  and  im 
mediately  wire  Alvarez  to  arrest  the  rebel  messenger  at 
or  below  Jibana.  Send  the  description  of  the  young  man 
given  in  Murillo's  dispatch  and  have  Alvarez  wire  back 
that  he  understands.  Quick!  There  is  no  time  to  be 
wasted.1' 

It  is  to  be  an  exciting  night  at  Jibana. 


232  UNDER  THREE  FIAGS. 

CHAPTER  XLI. 

THE    MEETING  AT   CADOZA. 

It  is  something  like  ten  miles  to  Cadoza,  another  and 
smaller  railway  town,  and  Ashley  arrives  about  noon. 
There  is  no  American  hotel  here.  Instead,  a  lazy  Cuban 
keeps  a  shiftless  hostelry  to  which  only  necessity  would 
drive  a  man.  A  party  of  soldiers  are  gathered  at  the 
inn  and  the  yard  is  filled  with  their  horses. 

Ashley  tethers  his  horse  at  a  spot  which  he  can  over 
look,  as  Rozinante  is  an  animal  that  would  tempt  a  man 
even  more  upright  than  a  soldier  in  time  of  war.  As  he 
gives  the  bridle  an  extra  hitch,  a  hand  is  dropped  on  his 
shoulder  and  a  familiar  voice  whispers: 

"Jack  Ashley,  by  all  that's  holy!" 

Ashley  turns  and  cries  out: 

"Hello,  Barker,  old  man !  Where'd  you  get  your  uni 
form?"  surveying  the  detective's  distinctly  military  at 
tire. 

"Hist!"  cautions  Barker,  glancing  over  his  shoulder. 
"Buy  a  drink  at  the  hotel  and  then  ride  up  the  road  a 
piece.  I'll  join  you  there."  Saying  which  the  detective 
walks  away  and  Ashley  enters  the  hotel. 

The  drinking-room  is  filled  with  Spanish  caballeria, 
who  glance  curiously  at  the  American;  after  procuring 
a  glass  of  wine  and  a  cigar,  Ashley  mounts  and  rides 
leisurely  up  the  road.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the 
hotel  he  finds  Barker  waiting,  and  he  remarks,  with  a 
grin:  "Barker,  you're  a  fashion  plate.  Where  on  earth 
did  you  get  those  togs?" 

"Hang  it!  Will  you  be  serious  ten  minutes,"  growls 
Barker.  "Let  me  tell  you  that  the  commanding  officer 
of  the  gang  at  the  hotel  is  Capt.  Julio  Alvarez,  who  is 
none  other  than  our  old  friend  Ralph  Felton." 

"So?    And  to  trail  him  you  turned  trooper,  eh?" 

"Exactly.  Through  him  I  expect  to  find  the  other 
Felton,  his  father." 


THE   MEETING   AT   CADOZA.  233 

"I  can  tell  you  a  quicker  way." 

"Ah!" 

"Push  along  to  Jibana,  ten  miles  east  of  here.  I  left 
Cyrus  Felton,  Phillip  Van  Zandt  and  Louise  Hathaway 
there  this  morning," 

"Quick!  Tell  me  all  you  know,"  demands  the  detect 
ive,  aroused  by  the  information  imparted  to  him  by  his 
co-worker. 

Ashley  supplies  the  needed  details,  and  Barker  asks: 
"You  are  reasonably  sure  that  Felton  and  Van  Zandt  will 
remain  in  Santiago  for  a  fortnight?" 

"I  think  you  can  depend  on  that." 

Then  affairs  are  shaping  themselves  advantageously 
for  our  purpose.  Our  command  will  go  to  Jibana  this 
evening,  but  I  don't  want  any  collision  there.  See  the 
position  of  the  game.  Van  Zandt,  is  he  is  Stanley,  is 
tracking  the  son  through  the  father,  and  I  am  trailing 
the  father  through  the  son,  intending  to  bag  both  of  them, 
as  I  have  an  interesting  bit  of  what  may  prove  strong  evi 
dence  against  Ralph  Felton.  But  I  can't  do  anything 
with  them  at  Jibana,  and  if  Van  Zandt  runs  afoul  of  young 
Felton  to-day  he  is  likely  to  kick  over  all  my  plans.  San 
tiago  is  the  place  to  play  the  last  hand  in  this  interesting 
game." 

"I  get  the  idea,"  remarks  Ashley.  "But  what  is  this 
new  evidence  against  young  Fenton?" 

"This:  That  I  believe  he  is  wearing  about  his  neck 
at  the  present  time  the  locket  that  was  removed  from 
Roger  Hathaway's  watch-chain  the  night  of  the  murder 
and  bank  robbery." 

Ashley  whistles  softly.  "That's  interesting,"  he  says. 
"But  how  did  you  learn  this?  And  while  you  are  ex 
plaining  kindly  give  an  account  of  yourself  from  the  time 
you  jumped  New  York." 

The  detective  complies,  and  when  the  interesting  tale 
is  completed,  Ashley  says  earnestly:  "Barker,  old  chap, 
my  confidence  in  you  has  been  increased  tenfold  in  the 
last  month." 

"Thank  you,"  responds  the  detective,  though  he  sus 
pects  some  raillery  in  the  newspaper  man's  remark. 


234  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Yes.  There  was  a  time  when  I  doubted  you  a  bit. 
And  when  you  made  arrangements  to  arrest  Cyrus  Fel- 
ton  I  about  concluded  that  the  case  was  to  prove  after 
all  an  ordinary  affair.  But  you  have  redeemed  your 
self,  Barker.  You  have  proved  that  the  detective  I  have 
long  admired  in  the  pages  of  fiction  is  not  a  myth,  but 
has  his  prototype  in  real  life." 

"Indeed?"  grunts  Barker.    "Go- on." 

"Yes;  just  before  you  descended  upon  your  victim 
with  a  triumphant  swoop,  said  victim  gave  you  the  slip. 
Undaunted  by  such  a  trifling  discouragement,  you 
struck  a  bee  line  for  Havana,  and  there " 

"Come,  stow  your  chaff.  I'd  like  to  know  whose  tom 
foolery  prevented  Felton's  arrest  in  New  York.  By 
thunder,  if  I  could  have  got  your  ear  a  moment  after  I 
discovered  Felton's  departure  for  Cuba,  I'd  have  given 
you  a  dressing-down  that  would  have  knocked  some  of 
the  self-sufficiency  out  of  you.'' 

"Well,  you  can  consider  yourself  forgiven,"  says  Ash 
ley,  soothingly.  "What's  up  at  Jibana?  Anything  spe 
cial?" 

"Yes;  a  rather  important  bit  of  work.  This  morning 
Capt.  Alvarez,  to  give  him  the  name  he  chooses  to  sail 
under,  learned  that  a  large  force  of  insurgents  under  El 
Terredo  were  encamped  somewhere  between  Cadoza  and 
Jibana.  He  wired  the  fact  to  Havana  and  not  ten  min 
utes  later  received  instructions  to  intercept  a  courier  for 
the  rebels  who  was  on  his  way  from  Santiago  to  Jibana, 
presumably  with  dispatches  to  El  Terredo.  Although  only 
his  orderly,  I  am  pretty  close  to  Alvarez.  The  chap  has 
taken  quite  a  fancy  to  me,  and  to  give  him  his  due  he  is 
a  devilishly  clever  fellow,  with  more  pluck  and  fighting 
blood  in  him  than  a  dozen  Spaniards.  American  blood 
will  tell,  my  boy." 

"Well,  what's  the  plan  for  the  night?" 

"This:  We  are  to  flag  the  train  about  a  mile  below 
Jibana  and  do  the  trick  quietly,  as  the  feeling  about  here 
is  pretty  strong  against  the  Spanish ;  arrest  the  courier, 
secure  the  papers,  and  wire  Havana  that  the  road  is 
clear,  as  I  understand  the  dispatches  relate  to  the  big 


THE   MEETING   AT    CADOZA.  235 

supply  train  which  is  on  its  way  from  the  capital 
to  Santiago.  Truenos,  you  know,  is  shifting  his  head 
quarters  to  the  latter  city." 

"Then  the  supply  train  has  already  left  Havana?" 

"Presumably.  The  rebels  at  the  Santiago  end  of  the 
line  got  wind  of  the  shipment,  and  have  sent  Don  Carlos 
to  put  El  Terredo  onto  the  fact.'' 

"Don  Carlos!"  repeats  Ashley,  with  a  start  that  Bar 
ker  does  not  notice;  "and  what  disposition  will  you  make 
of  the  prisoner?" 

Barker  shrugs  his  shoulders.  "He  will  probably  be 
honorably  shot." 

"Unhappy  youth !"  murmurs  Ashley. 

"It  is  rather  tough,"  remarks  Barker,  coolly.  "But  it 
is  the  fortune  of  war." 

Ashley's  forehead  is  wrinkled  in  thought.  "I'd  like  to 
take  a  hand  in  the  fun  to-night,"  he  remarks  carelessly. 
"I've  been  journeying  through  the  desert  for  more  than 
three  days,  with  not  a  sign  of  adventure.  I  don't  sup 
pose  it  would  do  for  me  to  show  myself  to  Alvarez.  How 
many  men  has  he  with  him?" 

"Twenty,  including  himself." 

"Does  he  intend  to  take  the  entire  command  with  him 
to  hold  up  the  train?" 

"No;  the  affair  is  to  be  transacted  in  the  quietest  man 
ner.  Alvarez,  myself  and  four  more  men  are  to  leave 
the  hotel  about  9  o'clock — the  train  is  due  at  Jibana  at 
10 — and  proceed  down  the  track  a  mile  or  so.  A  few 
swings  of  the  lantern  and  the  train  will  stop,  Don  Carlos 
be  removed  and  the  train  signaled  to  go  ahead.  If  the 
arrest  were  made  publicly,  word  might  get  to  El  Ter 
redo,  and  the  government's  plans  for  a  safe  passage  of 
the  supply  train  would  be  frustrated." 

"Your  business  completed  at  Jibana,  I  suppose  you 
will  push  directly  on  to  Santiago?" 

"Yes,  and  you?"  queries  Barker. 

"I  shall  probably  follow  at  a  respectful  distance.  -  I 
have  been  stopping  at  the  Hotel  Royal  in  Santiago,  and 
you  will  probably  find  me  there  if  I  am  in  the  city." 

"How  is  Felton  looking?"  asks  the  detective. 


236  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Badly;  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he  had  a  presentiment 
that  some  sort  of  disaster  was  impending." 

"And  Miss  Hathaway?" 

"Superb  as  ever.  There  is  apparently  a  tender  regard 
existing  between  her  and  Van  Zandt." 

"Strange,  strange  are  the  workings  of  fate,"  philoso 
phizes  Barker,  and  with  a  sly  grin  he  adds:  "How  are 
your  studies  in  statuary  progressing,  Jack?'' 

"Suspended  for  the  present,  most  sympathetic  Barker. 
Just  now  I  am  interested  in  a  study  of  the  life." 

"Ah;   some  dark-eyed  Cuban  senorita?" 

"The  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world,"  is  Ashley's 
enthusiastic  tribute. 

Barker  laughs  good-humoredly,  then  suddenly  ex 
claims:  "Hello!  There's  the  trumpet  call.  I  must  be 
off.  By  the  way,  I've  changed  my  name  to  Parker." 

"Parker!  Why  don't  you  get  a  name  to  match  your 
clothes?" 

"Go  to  thunder!"  retorts  the  detective.  "So  long.  I'll 
see  you  at  Santiago."  Barker  plunges  into  the  woods  be 
side  the  road  and  returns  to  the  hotel  by  a  circuitous 
route. 

"You'll  see  me  again  before  you  reach  Santiago,"  solil 
oquizes  Ashley,  gazing  after  his  friend's  retreating  form. 
"If  Navarro  is  in  these  mountains  I'll  search  him  out, 
and  we'll  have  a  hand  in  the  game  at  Jibana  to-night 
that  will  remind  Capt  Alvarez  of  a  certain  little  straight 
flush  he  ran  up  against  once  upon  a  time.  And  if  Na 
varro  is  not  to  be  found,  then,  by  George,  I'll  play  the 
hand  alone!" 


"EL   TERREDO."  237 

CHAPTER  XLII. 

"EL  TERREDO." 

Ashley  waits  until  he  believes  that  Capt.  Alvarez  and 
his  men  have  got  fairly  on  their  way  toward  Jibana; 
then  he  mounts  Rozinante  and  rides  back  to  the  hotel. 

Half  a  mile  to  the  eastward,  the  landlord  tells  him, 
a  trail  leads  off  into  the  mountains.  Ashley  remembers 
passing  it  in  the  morning.  Fortifying  himself  with  a 
dinner,  he  sets  forth. 

After  he  strikes  the  mountain  path,  his  progress  is 
slow  and  painful.  It  is  a  dreary  road,  steep  and  treach 
erous.  About  him  nothing  but  rocks,  red  clay,  cactus 
and  bog  and  a  stunted  growth  of  trees. 

Ashley  left  the  hotel  in  the  vicinity  of  I  o'clock,  and 
by  3  he  has  hardly  covered  four  miles.  "If  I  do  not 
secure  reinforcements  within  the  hour  I  must  'bout  face 
and  ride  to  Jibana,"  he  reflects.  "A  man  could  never 
find  his  way  out  of  this  howling  wilderness  after  night 
fall!  Jove!  It  must  have  been  a  matter  of  urgent  im 
portance  that  necessitated  the  dispatching  of  Don  Carlos 
to  Jibana.  Poor  little  chap!"  he  mutters,  and  as 
he  thinks  of  young  Navarro  lying  under  the  stars  with 
a  bullet  through  his  heart,  he  urges  Rozinante  at  a  dan 
gerous  pace. 

Another  half-hour  goes  by.  Ashley  is  now  in  the 
mountains,  and  yet  no  living  being  has  he  seen  to  break 
the  depressive  solitude.  Suddenly  there  rings  out  the 
command: 

"Alto,  ahi!" 

Ashley  checks  his  horse,  looks  about  him  and  dis 
covers  that  he  is  the  center  of  a  circle  of  leveled  mus 
kets,  the  owners  of  which  are  hidden  from  view. 

"All  right,  gentlemen,  I'm  out,"  announces  Jack,  cheer 
fully,  as  he  removes  his  eye-glasses  and'  wipes  the  dust 
and  moisture  from  them. 

Forth  from  the  bushes  steps  a  gaunt  Cuban,  in  a  tat- 


238  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

tered  uniform  and  with  feet  that  have  long  since  parted 
association  with  shoes.  Throwing  his  musket  across 
his  arm,  he  hurls  an  inquiry  at  Ashley. 

"You've  got  me  there,"  states  the  correspondent,  and 
smiling  around  the  ominous  fringe  of  musket  barrels. 

Finally,  giving  up  all  idea  of  a  conversation  with  the 
dark-featured  mountaineers,  "El  Terredo!"  he  cries,  "El 
Terredo!  Endonde  El  Terredo?  I  don't  know  whether 
that's  right  or  not,  but  it's  the  best  I  have  in  stock." 

The  mountaineer  appears  to  grasp  the  idea.  He 
shouts  something  to  the  men  in  the  bushes,  and  a  dozen 
lusty  fellows,  white  and  black,  come  forth.  The  leader 
makes  a  sign  to  Ashley  to  go  ahead,  and  the  latter  obeys. 

For  a  mile  or  more  the  little  cavalcade  proceeds,  when 
suddenly  the  leader  of  Ashley's  silent  escort  emits  a  shrill 
whistle.  An  answering  signal  is  faintly  heard,  and  then 
the  march  is  resumed.  Five  minutes  later  Jack  rides 
into  a  clearing  and  hears  a  welcome  voice  ring  out: 
"Welcome,  Senor  Ashley!" 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Navarro,"  says  Ashley,  heartily,  as 
he  drops  from  his  horse  and  grips  the  insurgent  leader's 
hand.  "Is  this  part  of  your  army?" 

"Yes;  hardy  fellows,  every  man  of  them,"  replies  Na 
varro,  signalling  his  followers  to  fall  back.  "What  on 
earth  brings  you  into  the  mountains?" 

"Thought  I'd  drop  round  and  return  thanks  for  your 
generous  gift." 

"Ah,  say  nothing  of  that.  I  should  have  been  glad 
to  have  sent  you  a  stable  of  horses." 

"One  was  enough.  But  this  is  incidental.  You  ex 
pect  dispatches  from  Santiago  to-night?" 

"No;  that  is,  no  special  ones." 

"Some  are  on  their  way,  nevertheless,  in  the  keeping  of 
Don  Carlos." 

"Don  Carlos!"  cries  Navarro,  turning  pale. 

"Ay;  but  that  is  not  all.  The  errand  of  Don  Carlos 
has  become  known  at  Havana  and  orders  have  been 
wired  to  Capt.  Alvarez,  who  is  now  on  his  way  from 
Cadoza  to  Jibana,  if  he  is  not  already  there,  to  intercept 
the  courier,  and  secure  the  dispatches.5' 


"EL    TERREDO."  239 

Navarro  staggers  as  if  dealt  a  blow.  "My  God !  They 
will  shoot  him  like  a  dog!"  he  groans,  his  face  white  as 
death.  "When — where  is  Carlos  to  arrive?" 

"At  Jibana,  at  10  to-night." 

"Ho!  Then  all  is  not  lost,"  flashes  Navarro.  "By 
heaven!  I'll  wipe  Jibana  and  every  Spaniard  in  it  from 
the  face  of  the  earth!'' 

"Easy,  my  friend,"  counsels  Ashley,  grasping  the  in 
furiated  man  by  the  arm.  "If  Don  Carlos  is  to  be  saved, 
and  also  the  dispatches — keep  those  in  mind — you  will 
need  your  wits  more  than  a  thousand  men.  Now,  listen 
to  me  a  moment.  There  is  time  enough. 

"Yesterday,  or  the  day  before,  or  sometime  within  the 
week,  a  big  supply  train  left  Havana  for  Santiago.  In 
formation  of  its  dispatch  must  have  been  received  by  Don 
Quesada,  and,  knowing  your  whereabouts — did  he  know 
them?" — Navarro  nods — "he  has  sent  Don  Carlos  to 
notify  you,  that  the  train  may  be  captured.  This  morn 
ing  Capt.  Alvarez  was  at  Cadoza.  He  heard  it  rumored 
that  a  large  force  of  insurgents  were  encamped  in  these 
mountains.  He  wired  Havana  to  that  effect,  and  ten 
minutes  later  received  orders  to  intercept  'Don  Carlos. 
I  learned  this  while  at  Cadoza,  and  realizing  the  danger 
that  threatened  your  brother,  I  set  off  for  the  mountains, 
trusting  to  Providence  to  run  across  you  or  some  of  your 
men.  On  my  way  hither  I  devised  a  plan  by  which  you 
can  outwit  Alvarez  and  later  capture  the  ammunition 
train — and  I  do  not  believe  in  doing  things  by  halves. 
But  first,  how  far  is  it  to  Jibana?" 

"About  six  miles,  as  the  crow  flies." 

"That  means  eight  or  ten  by  these  awful  bridal-paths, 
then.  You  have  a  score  of  men  here  at  least.  They  will 
be  more  than  enough.  Now,  I  will  outline  my  plan  and 
we  can  perfect  it  on  our  way  to  Jibana." 

Navarro  listens  without  interruption  while  Ashley 
talks.  When  the  programme  for  the  night  has  been 
sketched,  Navarro's  dark  eyes  moisten  and  he  seizes 
Jack's  hands  in  a  grip  that  makes  the  latter  wince.  "Ash 
ley,  you're  a  hero!"  he  cries. 

"Nonsense,"  laughs  Jack. 


240  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"I  can  never  repay  the  debt  of  gratitude  I  owe  you." 

''Don't  try.  Suppose  we  push  along  to  Jibana.  We 
can  talk  matters  over  on  the  way." 

"Good.  We  will  start  at  once,"  says  Navarro,  and 
he  communicates  an  order  to  his  men. 

"How  many  men  have  you  back  in  the  mountains?" 
Ashley  inquires  of  Navarro  as  they  ride  side  by  side 
through  the  desert  of  rock  and  chaparral. 

"Two  thousand.  Accessions  have  been  coming  every 
day.  But  they  are  not  directly  under  my  command. 
My  part  in  the  revolution  has  been  a  rather  peculiar  one. 
Up  to  a  fortnight  or  so  ago,  when  I  parted  with  you  on 
the  Santos  road,  my  identity  was  as  much  a  mystery 
as  that  of  the  president  of  the  provisional  republic.  Un 
suspected  as  a  leading  factor  in  the  struggle  for  inde 
pendence,  I  mingled  with  the  Spanish  and  listened  with 
a  smile  to  the  stories  told  of  the  prowess  of  the  cruiser 
Pearl  of  the  Antilles  and  her  mysterious  commander,  El 
Terredo.  At  the  time  the  Mercedes  was  sunk  I  did 
command  the  Pearl  and  with  my  own  hand  aimed  the 
dynamite  gun  that  sent  the  Spanish  battleship  to  the 
bottom.  But  most  of  my  time  has  been  spent  on  land. 
I  have  done  more  planning  than  fighting,  and  while  I 
rejoice  not  in  a  single  title  except  that  of  El  Terredo, 
in  a  land  where  titles  are  cheap,  my  authority  is  unlim 
ited,  my  orders  are  implicitly  obeyed,  and  I  could  ruin 
Cuba  Libre  with  a  single  command." 

"Are  you  not  fearful  of  being  recognized  during  some 
of  your  trips  into  the  camp  of  the  enemy?"  asked  Ashley, 
looking  at  the  young  man  with  undisguised  admiration. 

Navarro  smiles.  "There  will  be  no  further  exposure. 
When  I  left  the  quinta  with  you  it  was  to  take  the  field, 
not  to  leave  it  until  Santiago  falls.  After  the  capture  of 
the  ammunition  train,  if  luck  favors  us,  I  leave  here  for 
the  coast,"  pointing  westward.  "In  a  harbor  yonder 
rides  the  Pearl  of  the  Antilles,  and  when  I  take  command 
of  her  it  will  be  the  opening  of  a  campaign  that  Spain's 
navy  will  long  remember." 

"Until  Santiago  falls?"  repeats  Ashley.  "You  look 
for  the  capitulation  of  that  city?" 


"EL   TERREDO."  241 

"Within  a  fortnight  Gen.  Masso  will  hurl  10,000  men 
upon  it.  The  troops  back  in  these  mountains  will  form 
part  of  an  army  against  which  20,060  Spanish  will  not 
avail.  Unless  you  insist  upon  reporting  the  siege  for 
your  paper  amid  the  bursting  of  shells  and  the  roar  of 
artillery,  keep  away  from  Santiago — at  Santos,  for  in 
stance.  The  Spanish  squadron  is  already  on  its  way  to 
Santiago,  and  when  the  city  falls  into  the  hands  of  the 
patriots  the  battleships  will  open  fire/' 

"Then  I  believe  I  will  return  to  Santiago  at  once — or 
after  our  night's  work  is  finished.  Shall  we  reach  the 
edge  of  Jibana  before  nightfall?" 

"Probably  not,  but  in  season  for  the  work  in  hand.  It 
will  be  a  night  that  Capt.  Alvarez  will  long  remember 
if  memory  lasts  beyond  this  world." 

"By  Jove!  That  will  never  do,"  exclaims  Ashley. 
Navarro  looks  at  him  inquiringly. 

"Alvarez  must  not  be  injured,"  declares  Jack.  "I  have 
particular  reasons  for  keeping  Alvarez  alive  for  some 
time  to  come." 

"Rather  awkward,"  laughs  Navarro.  "I  don't  see  but 
that  you  will  have  to  overlook  the  job  to-night,  and  sort 
out  your  friend,  for  I  expect  it  will  be  necessary  to  kill 
one  or  two  of  the  gang." 

Ashley  reflects  a  moment.  "You  should  be  able  to 
identify  the  leader,"  he  says,  and  he  adds  to  himself:  "As 
for  Barker,  I  shall  have  to  prevent  his  taking  part  in  the 
affair.  It's  a  ticklish  job  all  round." 

"Well,  your  wishes  shall  be  respected,"  says  Navarro. 
"Capt.  Alvarez  shall  live.  He  is  fortunate  in  having  so 
influential  a  friend  at  court." 

"Some  of  the  most  worthless  of  men  are  more  valuable 
alive  than  dead.  I  have  no  friendship  for  Alvarez,  but 
his  demise  just  at  present  would  complicate  certain  mat 
ters  in  which  I  have  a  large  interest." 

The  moon  is  creeping  up  over  a  crest  of  the  range, 
when,  at  a  signal  from  the  guide,  Navarro  calls  a  halt. 
After  a  whispered  consultation,  he  tells  Ashley  that  they 
are  some  little  distance  below  the  Jibana  hotel  and  rail 
way  station. 


242  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Two  hundred  rods  beyond  us  lies  the  road,"  he  says; 
"and  fifty  yards  farther  is  the  track.  We  will  hitch  here." 

"Very  good,"  declares  Ashley.  "Here,  then,  we  sep 
arate.  It  is  now  nearly  8  o'clock,"  consulting  his  watch 
by  the  glow  of  his  cigar.  "Good  luck,  old  man.  The 
signal  for  my  reappearance  will  be  the  old  rallying  cry 
of  'Santiago.' 

The  men  exchanged  a  hearty  handclasp.  Then  Ash 
ley  dismounts,  and  headed  by  the  guide,  leads  Rozinante 
through  the  brush  to  the  road.  Here  he  vaults  into  the 
saddle  again  and  canters  toward  the  town. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

THE  FIGHT  IN  THE  MOONLIGHT. 

"Didn't  expect  you  back  so  soon,"  declares  Landlord 
Carter,  answering  Ashley's  halloa  without  the  Hotel 
Americano  at  Jibana. 

"I  am  a  little  ahead  on  my  own  calculations,"  is  the  re 
ply.  "Are  the  Americans  still  here?" 

"No,  sir;   left  this  afternoon  for  "Santiago." 

"Full  house,  though,  I  judge,  motioning  toward  the 
windows  of  the  reading-room,  from  which  emanate 
snatches  of  song  and  the  clink  of  glasses. 

"Yes ;  gang  of  Spanish  troopers.  Noisy  devils.  Stop 
overnight,  I  suppose?" 

"Sure.  I  want  some  supper  in  a  hurry  and  a  room  at 
your  leisure." 

The  landlord  shouts  to  the  hostler,  who  leads  Rozin 
ante  away  to  his  well-earned  grain,  and  Ashley  follows 
Carter  into  the  hotel,  with  the  remark:  "I  do  not  care 
to  have  those  chaps  in  there  see  me,  or  know  who  I  am." 

"All  right,  sir.  This  way.  The  troopers  are  all  in 
the  drinking-room  and  they  haven't  moved  out  of  their 
chairs  for  an  hour." 

Supper  over,  Ashley  is  shown  to  his  room  and  the 


THE    FIGHT   IN    THE   MOONLIGHT.  243 

landlord  is  about  to  make  his  exit  with  a  cheerful  "good 
night/'  when  Ashley  remarks: 

"By  the  way,  have  you  an  old  coat  and  hat  of  any 
description?" 

Carter  scratches  his  head  reflectively.  "I  have  an  old 
Grand  Army  uniform  that  I  brought  with  me  from  the 
states.  1  was  a  member  of  the  I3th  Massachusetts  vol 
unteers,  and  after  the  war  joined  the  Chelsea  post, 
when " 

"That  will  do  very  nicely,"  interrupts  Ashley.  "I  want 
to  borrow  the  uniform  for  a  few  hours." 

"All  right,  sir.    I'll  get  it  out  in  the  morning." 

"But  I  want  it  to-night." 

"Very  good,  sir.  I've  been  too  long  in  this  business 
to  ask  questions.  Used  to  run  a  small  hotel  in  Boston," 
grins  Carter,  as  he  vanishes.  He  returns  shortly  with  the 
clothes,  and  Ashley,  after  a  glance,  pronounces  them  sat 
isfactory. 

"One  more  request,  Carter.  You  noticed,  perhaps, 
among  your  guests  a  rather  short,  thick-set  party,  with 
a  dark,  closely  cropped  mustache." 

"Smokes  a  short,  black  pipe  and  looks  like  an  English 
man?" 

"That's  the  chap.  Send  him  up,  but  don't  attract  the 
attention  of  his  companions." 

Carter  nods  and  disappears,  and  a  few  minutes  later 
the  good-natured  countenance  of  John  Barker  is  thrust 
into  the  room. 

"Buenas  tardes,  Senor  Parker,"  is  Ashley's  salutation. 
"Come  in  and  shut  the  door." 

"Where  the  devil  did  you  come  from?''  demands  the 
detective,  dropping  into  a  chair. 

"Up  the  road  a  piece.  I  got  tired  of  journeying 
through  the  desert,  and  concluded  to  take  the  back 
track.  Fill  up  your  pipe  and  make  yourself  sociable." 

"Can't  stop.  It  is  nearly  9  o'clock  and  we  start  at  that 
hour." 

"Oh,  yes;  on  the  business  you  were  telling  me  of  this 
noon.  You  haven't  changed  your  plans,  then?" 

"No;  there  was  no  occasion  to," 


244  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Well,  it  is  not  absolutely  essential  that  you  should 
accompany  Alvarez,  is  it?" 

"That  was  his  wish.  With  the  exception  of  Alvarez 
and  myself  and  the  four  men  who  were  to  supplement  our 
little  party,  the  command  knows  nothing  definite  of  the 
evening's  work.  Alvarez  doesn't  fraternize  much  with 
his  followers." 

"Why  not  send  a  man  in  your  stead?" 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  too  late  to  make  any  changes  in  the 
plans.  Most  of  the  men  below  are  half-shot  now." 

Ashley  takes  a  turn  about  the  room  and  drops  his  hand 
on  his  friend's  shoulder.  "Barker,"  he  says,  "it  was 
only  this  noon  that  you  requested  me  to  be  serious  for 
at  least  ten  minutes  on  a  stretch.  I  never  was  more 
serious  than  I  am  now,  when  I  say  to  you,  don't  accom 
pany  Alvarez  on  his  errand  to-night." 

"What  the  deuce  are  you  so  interested  in  the  affair  for 
all  at  once?"  queries  the  detective. 

"Well,  remain  here,  and  I  will  enlighten  you." 

At  this  moment  the  impatient  shout,  "Ho,  Parker!" 
floats  up  from  the  hotel  yard,  and  with  the  remark,  "I'm 
off;  see  you  later,  Jack,"  Barker  bounds  from  the  room. 

"Hang  it!  I  ought  to  have  told  him  at  the  outset 
how  the  land  lay,"  mutters  Ashley.  "Now,  I  suppose  I 
shall  have  to  direct  my  undivided  efforts  to  preventing 
his  slaughter  at  the  hands  of  Navarro's  men." 

Ashley  slips  off  his  coat  and  gets  into  the  faded  uniform 
of  the  landlord,  dons  the  Grand  Army  hat  and  pulls  it 
down  over  his  eyes;  examines  his  revolvers  to  make  cer 
tain  that  they  are  in  proper  working  order,  and  then, 
blowing  out  his  lamp,  seats  himself  by  the  open  window, 
where  he  can  command  a  view  of  the  road. 

Shortly  after  9  o'clock  he  sees  six  forms  cross  the 
band  of  moonlight  into  the  shadows  beyond.  He  waits 
ten  minutes  and  then  glides  softly  down  the  stairway  and 
out  into  the  night. 

Alvarez  and  his  men  leave  the  hotel  afoot  and  instead 
of  taking  the  railroad  track,  proceed  down  the  highway. 
Alvarez  rode  over  the  ground  during  the  afternoon  and 
selected  a  point  about  a  mile  and  a  half  below  the  village 


THE    FIGHT   IN   THE   MOONLIGHT.  245 

as  the  place  for  holding  up  the  train.  Here  the  road 
crosses  the  railway  and  beyond  is  a  long  stretch  of 
straight  track. 

The  six  proceed  silently  to  the  appointed  spot,  and 
then,  there  being  no  further  occasion  for  secrecy,  they 
fall  to  smoking  and  chatting.  The  train  is  due  at  Jibana 
at  10  and  there  is  yet  half  an  hour  to  wait. 

Twenty  minutes  of  it  go  by,  when  Alvarez  discovers 
that  his  party  is  short  two  men. 

"Ho!  Sancho!  Francisco!"  he  calls,  and  repeats  the 
shout,  there  being  no  response.  "Whither  went  they, 
Parker?"  he  asks,  turning  to  his  orderly. 

"They  were  here  a  few  minutes  ago,  captain.  I  last 
noticed  them  strolling  toward  the  road." 

Alvarez  utters  an  impatient  growl.  "Search  them 
out,  Pedro,  and  thou,  too,  Juan.  The  train  will  be  here 
in  five  minutes." 

As  the  two  troopers  addressed  take  themselves  off  in 
quest  of  their  companions  Alvarez  lights  a  lantern  and 
hands  it  to  the  orderly. 

"By  the  way,  what  disposition  is  to  be  made  of  the 
prisoner?"  asks  the  latter. 

"We  shall  have  to  shoot  him,  I  expect,"  is  the  cool  re 
sponse.  "We  can't  very  well  take  him  with  us,  and  we 
certainly  cannot  turn  him  loose." 

"It  seems  a  rather  cold-blooded  piece  of  business.  It 
savors  of  murder." 

At  the  word  Alvarez  shivers  slightly.  The  nights  in 
Cuba  are  damp  and  chilly. 

"Ten  o'clock,"  he  mutters,  holding  his. watch  to  the 
lantern.  "Where  the  devil  are  my  men?  We  shall  likely 
have  to  go  in  search  of  the  second  pair.  Ha,  the  train !" 

The  whistle  of  the  Havana  express  is  heard  in  the  dis 
tance  and  the  men  leap  to  their  feet. 

"Down  the  track  with  you,"  orders  Alvarez.  "As  for 
you/'  turning  to  four  forms  that  are  approaching  from 
the  shadows  of  the  highway,  "el  diablo!  What  sort  of 
men  have  I  in  my  command?" 

The  troopers  make  no  reply  to  the  angry  query  of 
their  leader. 


246  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

The  orderly  swings  his  lantern  and  an  answering  blast 
comes  from  the  train,  which  draws  up  upon  the  crossing. 

"I  have  an  order  for  the  arrest  of  one  of  your  passen 
gers,"  Alvarez  informs  the  conductor.  "Watch  the  train 
and  see  that  no  one  leaves  it,"  he  tells  the  four  troopers, 
and,  followed  by  the  orderly,  he  boards  the  first  coach. 

Within  this  is  the  object  of  their  search.  Don  Carlos 
Navarro  is  reclining  wearily  in  a  seat  about  midway 
of  the  car.  He  starts  when  the  soldiers  enter  and  the 
color  flows  from  his  cheeks  when  they  stop  before  him. 

Alvarez  consults  a  paper,  and,  glancing  from  it  to 
young  Navarro,  remarks:  "The  very  chap.  I  have  a 
warrant  for  your  arrest,  sir."  Then  to  the  orderly: 
"Remove  the  prisoner,  Parker." 

"By  thunder,  he's  fainted,"  mutters  the  orderly,  as 
he  bears  the  limp  form  from  the  car. 

"Search  him,"  commands  Alvarez,  signaling  to  the 
conductor  to  go  ahead. 

As  the  train  rumbles  away  the  orderly  goes  through 
the  coat  pockets  of  the  prisoner,  but  without  finding  any 
sign  of  papers,  rebel  dispatches  or  otherwise.  Then  he 
tears  open  the  unconscious  youth's  shirt,  and  the  next 
instant  utters  an  exclamation  of  astonishment. 

"By  heaven !  It's  a  woman !"  he  mutters,  as  he  deposits 
his  burden  tenderly  on  the  ground  and  straightens  up  to 

acquaint  his  chief  of  the  surprising  bit  of  intelligence. 
******* 

The  moon  swings  high  above  the  range  when  Ashley 
leaves  the  hotel  and  proceeds  down  the  railroad  track, 
the  route  he  naturally  supposes  Alvarez  and  his  party 
have  taken. 

As  the  newspaper  man,  revolver  in  hand,  moves  slowly 
and  cautiously  along,  his  eyes  on  the  alert  for  a  glimpse 
of  Alvarez'  party,  the  danger  of  his  situation  suddenly 
occurs  to  him.  If  the  Spaniards  have  already  stationed 
themselves  at  some  point  along  the  rail  he  is  likely  to 
stumble  upon  them  at  any  minute. 

At  last  he  sights  the  party  of  troopers.  Then  he 
remembers  that  the  road  is  close  by,  and  stealing  through 


THE   FIGHT   IN    THE   MOONLIGHT.  247 

the  brush,  he  proceeds  softly  along  the  highway  until 
the  hum  of  conversation  greets  his  ear. 

He  crawls  at  a  safe  distance  to  a  position  beyond  the 
group,  not  twenty  feet  distant  from  the  spot  where  Alva 
rez  and  Barker  are  seated. 

The  brush  is  dense  and  he  has  nothing  now  to  do 
but  keep  perfectly  still.  He  has  seen  or  heard  nothing 
of  El  Torredo  or  his  men,  but  he  knows  that  secreted 
somewhere  in  the  waste  of  chaparral  around  him  are 
stout  hearts  and  strong  arms  waiting  for  the  cry  of  "San 
tiago  !"  to  rouse  them  to  swift  action. 

He  watches  Alvarez  light  the  lantern,  and,  as  the  rays 
fall  upon  the  orderly's  features  Ashley  thinks:  "If  I 
could  only  get  within  whispering  distance  of  the  old  man 
I'd  give  him  a  quiet  tip  to  make  himself  exceeding 
scarce." 

But  at  this  instant  the  whistle  of  the  express  is  heard 
and  Ashley  raises  himself  on  his  elbows.  He  sees  Barker 
start  down  the  track,  and  his  impulse  is  to  follow.  But 
to  do  so  he  will  have  to  cross  a  broad  belt  of  moonlit 
open,  and  at  this  moment  the  four  troopers  come  up. 

The  train  comes  to  a  standstill,  Don  Carlos  is  removed, 
the  cars  rumble  away,  and  Ashley  notes  with  satisfaction 
that  the  search  for  the  papers  is  being  conducted  by 
the  orderly.  "He  will  not  be  harmed  should  Navarro's 
men  open  fire,  if  he  keeps  close  to  Carlos,"  he  thinks. 

But  where  is  Navarro?  The  situation  is  becoming 
strained  for  the  young  man  in  the  Grand  Army  uniform. 

Jack  is  watching  Barker.  He  hears  him  utter  an  ejacu 
lation  of  astonishment  as  he  lays  the  unconscious  form 
of  Carlos  upon  the  ground.  And  then  he  hears  a  hoarse 
bellow  of  rage  and  sees  one  of  Alvarez'  troopers  whip 
out  his  sword  and  spring  upon  the  orderly. 

Less  than  a  dozen  feet  separate  Ashley  and  Barker. 
With  a  cry  of  warning,  Jack  dashes  forward  and  catches 
the  descending  arm  just  in  time  to  avert  the  certain 
destruction  of  the  detective,  who  is  wholly  off  his  guard. 
As  it  is,  the  edge  of  the  falling  blade  catches  Barker 
across  the  forehead,  half-stunning  him  and  cutting  a 
gash  that  means  a  scar  to  recall  this  night  in  years  to 


248  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

come.  At  the  same  instant  Ashley  recognizes  El  Terredo 
in  the  wielder  of  the  sword,  and  he  whispers,  "Easy, 
Navarro,"  in  time  to  check  a  slash  at  his  own  head. 

Meanwhile  the  remaining  three  troopers  have  hurled 
themselves  upon  Alvarez  and  Barker.  It  all  occurs  in 
a  flash  and  before  Ashley  recovers  from  his  surprise 
at  the  unexpected  turn  of  events  a  shrill  whistle  from 
Navarro  has  summoned  nearly  a  score  more  of  men 
from  the  surrounding  shadows. 

Navarro  raises  Don  Carlos  in  his  arms  and  the  youth, 
who  has  recovered  consciousness,  clasps  his  arms  about 
his  brother's  neck  and  bursts  into  tears  of  joy. 

"There,  be  a  man,"  soothes  the  latter.  "Remain  here 
a  few  minutes  while  I  look  after  your  Spanish  friends." 

Navarro  picks  up  the  lantern  and  flashes  its  rays  into 
Alvarez'  face. 

"What's  this?"  he  cries.  "By  heaven,  Captain  Alvarez, 
I  think  we  have  met  before." 

As  the  two  men  confront  each  other  in  the  moonlight, 
there  is  no  need  of  the  lantern  for  each  to  see  the  other's 
countenance. 

An  exclamation  of  surprise  and  rage  escapes  Alvarez' 
lips,  and  he  struggles  in  the  grasp  of  the  two  men  who 
pinion  his  arms. 

"Curse  you!"  he  grits,  in  a  voice  choked  with  passion; 
"I'd  give  half  my  life  for  five  minutes  of  fair  play  now!" 

"Fair  play?"  sneers  Navarro.  "You  do  not  know  the 
meaning  of  the  phrase.  You  are  a  thief,  a  blackguard, 
and  a  traitor!" 

Alvarez  wrenches  free  by  a  mighty  effort  and  with  a 
fearful  oath  hurls  himself  upon  Navarro. 


THE   METAMORPHOSIS    OF   DON   CARLOS.         249 
CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE  METAMORPHOSIS  OF  DON  CARLOS. 

"Stand  back!''  commands  Navarro,  as  his  men  start 
forward  to  the  enraged  Alvarez,  whose  fingers  have 
twined  about  the  insurgent  leader's  neck.  "Back,  I  say! 
I  can  handle  this  gentleman  without  assistance." 

Alvarez  is  as  a  child  in  the  steely  arms  of  El  Terredo. 
The  latter  tears  the  clutching  fingers  from  his  throat, 
sweeps  the  Spanish  captain  off  his  feet  and  dashes  him 
to  the  ground. 

Half-stunned  and  crazed  by  passion,  Alvarez  struggles 
to  his  knees  and  whips  out  a  pistol.  It  is  knocked  from 
his  grasp  before  his  arm  straightens,  as  half  a  dozen 
watchful  Cubans  pounce  upon  him. 

"Away  with  them!"  orders  Navarro,  with  a  sweep  of 
his  arm,  and  as  Alvarez  and  Barker  are  hustled  off  in 
the  darkness  he  turns  to  Don  Carlos,  who  has  been  a 
silent  and  trembling  witness  of  the  conflict. 

"In  heaven's  name,  my  brother,  what  brings  you  on 
this  errand?  Don  Manuel  must  be  mad." 

"Ah,  Emilio,  do  not  blame  Don  Manuel,"  gently  pro 
tests  Carlos,  as  he  embraces  Navarro.  "The  matter  was 
urgent,  a  courier  was  required,  and  I  myself  suggested 
that  I  be  that  courier.  To  see  you  again  I  would  have 
dared  the  perils  of  the  journey,  even  were  nothing  more 
at  stake." 

"Brave  heart,"  murmurs  Navarro,  brushing  back  the 
ringlets  from  his  brother's  brow.  "But  let  this  be  your 
last  commission,  Carlos.  I  would  not  jeopardize  your 
life  for  a  thousand  Cubas.  But  come,  is  the  news  you 
bring  me  verbal  or  written?" 

For  answer  Carlos  places  a  letter  in  Navarro's  hands, 
and  the  latter  reads  it  by  the  light  of  the  lantern.  It 
is  brief,  and  as  he  thrusts  it  into  his  pocket  Jack  steps 
forward. 

"Ah,  Ashley,"  cries  Navarro,  grasping  him  by  the  hand; 


250  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

the  trick  was  quickly  done,  eh?  Carlos,  it  is  to  our 
American  friend  that  you  owe  your  present  safety  and 
perhaps  your  life.  It  was  he  who  warned  me  of  the  plot 
for  your  arrest." 

"Spare  me  any  praise,"  protests  Ashley,  as  Carlos  is 
about  to  express  his  gratitude.  "By  good  fortune  I 
became  acquainted  with  Alvarez'  design,  and  further  luck 
cast  me  in  your  brother's  way." 

"After  you  rode  for  miles  into  the  mountains  in  search 
of  me,"  interposes  Navarro. 

"Yes,"  laughs  Jack,  "for  I  had  a  suspicion  that,  single- 
handed,  I  should  not  have  been  a  match  for  the  Span 
ish  captain  and  his  men.  Now,  will  you  tell  me,  my 
friend,  how  you  circumvented  Alvarez  so  cleverly?" 

"It  was  an  accident.  The  Spaniards  came  down  the 
road  instead  of  the  railroad  track.  When  they  located 
themselves  at  the  crossing  we  established  our  party  about 
200  yards  from  them,  to  wait  the  coming  of  the  train. 
The  watch  growing  irksome,  I  and  two  of  my  men  set 
forth  to  reconnoiter.  We  had  scarcely  proceeded  fifty 
yards,  when  we  stood  face  to  face  in  the  moonlight  with 
two  of  the  troopers. 

"Instantly  we  threw  ourselves  upon  them  and  stifled 
their  attempts  to  sound  an  alarm.  They  were  dragged 
back  to  our  ambush,  bound  hand  and  foot,  and  pistols 
placed  to  their  heads  with  orders  that  they  be  instantly 
shot  at  the  first  outcry.  I  rightly  assumed  that  their 
companions  would  institute  search  for  them,  and  shortly 
after  two  more  troopers  came  up  the  road.  These  we 
took  from  the  rear  and  when  all  four  were  safely  secured 
the  idea  of  exchanging  our  dress  for  theirs  and  rejoining 
Alvarez  naturally  suggested  itself.  The  rest  you  know.'' 

"Yes,  and  I  also  know  that  only  by  a  fraction  of  a 
second  did  I  prevent  your  glittering  sword  blade  from 
carving  in  twain  the  head  of  a  very  warm  friend  of  mine.'' 

"How?    The  fellow  who  was  holding  Carlos?'' 

"The  same.  He  is  an  American,  like  myself,  but  it 
suits  his  purpose  for  the  present  to  masquerade  as  a 
soldier  of  Castile.  At  the  moment  I  interfered  you  were 
about  to  slaughter  the  man  to  whom  Carlos  primarily 


THE   METAMORPHOSIS   OP   DON   CARLOS.         251 

owes  his  escape  to-night,  for  it  was  through  him  that  I 
learned  of  the  plan  to  arrest  the  messenger  to  El  Ter- 
redo." 

"San  Pedro!"  cries  the  impetuous  Navarro,  in  tones 
of  sincere  regret.  "I  should  never  have  forgiven  myself. 
But  I  will  at  once  set  him  at  liberty  and  add  the  poor 
consolation  of  an  honest  apology." 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  do  not  wish  you  to  do.  It 
was  to  avoid  recognition  that  I  rigged  out  in  this  uniform, 
and  I  am  confident  that  Alvarez  did  not  recognize  me. 
Barker,  that  is  my  friend's  name,  may  or  may  not  have 
discovered  my  identity  when  I  cried  out  to  you  at  the 
moment  I  clutched  your  arm.  At  any  rate,  I  shall  not 
attempt  to  ascertain.  The  principal  point  I  wish  to 
insist  upon,  if  you  will  permit  me,  is  that  Alvarez  and 
Barker  shall  not  be  separated;  further,  that  they  be  per 
mitted  to  proceed  to  Santiago  within  forty-eight  hours." 

"Your  wishes  shall  be  respected,  my  dear  Ashley," 
says  Navarro. 

"Where  have  you  had  the  prisoners  taken?"  asks  Jack. 

"To  the  ambush  I  spoke  of,  about  200  yards  up  the 
road." 

"And  your  further  plans?" 

"I  intended  to  have  marched  the  Spaniards  back  to 
the  mountains  as  prisoners  of  war.  Within  the  hour  I 
shall  send  a  courier  to  the  revolutionary  camp  with  orders 
to  forward  two  hundred  men  with  which  to  capture  the 
supply  train.  They  should  arrive  early  to-morrow  fore 
noon/' 

"Good.  That  work  successfully  accomplished,  you  can 
then  permit  Alvarez  and  Barker  to  depart  in  peace." 

"If  you  so  desire.  And  now  suppose  we  rejoin  my 
men." 

As  the  two  move  away  Ashley's  eye  is  caught  by  the 
glitter  of  a  small  object  upon  the  ground.  He  picks 
it  up  and  discovers  that  it  is  a  locket  attached  to  a  broken 
bit  of  chain.  As  he  turns  it  over  in  his  hands  and  seeks 
to  examine  it  in  the  pale  light  of  the  moon,  Navarro  calls 
to  him  from  the  road:  "Still  surveying  the  battlefield, 
Ashley?" 


252  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Coming,"  says  Jack.  He  drops  his  find  into  his  hip 
pocket  and  proceeds  to  forget  all  about  it. 

"What  is  to  be  done  with  Carlos,  now  that  he  is  here?" 
he  inquires  as  he  rejoins  the  Navarros. 

"Carlos  must  return  to  Santiago  at  once,"  declares  El 
Terredo.  "If  I  might  add  to  the  already  large  debt  of 
gratitude,  I  would  ask  that  you  accompany  him." 

"Gladly,  Navarro.  My  intentions  were  to  make  San 
tiago  at  all  speed.  You  will  not  have  Carlos  return  by 
rail?" 

"No;    by  horse." 

"There  is  a  possibility  of  running  into  trouble  upon 
his  arrival  at  the  city." 

"True;  and  to  obviate  that  I  have  conceived  a  plan, 
not  startlingly  original.  Carlos  must  disguise  himself 
in  feminine  attire." 

"Ah,  then  I  pose  in  the  role  of  a  knight  errant  escorting 
a  beautiful  maiden  over  the  desert  sands  to  her  ancestral 
halls." 

Navarro  laughs  softly.  "Is  the  part  distasteful  to  you?" 
he  asks. 

"Nay.  My  only  regret  will  be  that  Carlos  is  not  the 
beauteous  maid  she  will  represent." 

"But  he  will  look  the  part  to  perfection,  I  promise  you. 
Half  a  dozen  of  my  men  will  act  as  escort  and  conduct 
Carlos  to  the  quinta.  But  I  want  the  assurance  of  your 
active  head  and  arm  the  greater  part  of  the  journey." 

"Thank  you.  And  the  female  toggery — where  is  that 
to  be  procured?" 

"That  is  a  more  difficult  matter  to  adjust.  Do  you 
think  the  same  wardrobe  that  fitted  you  out  to-night 
could  be  called  upon  in  this  emergency?" 

"It  is  possible,"  replies  Ashley.  "There  are  women 
folks  about  the  Hotel  Americano,  else  the  house  would 
not  present  its  unusually  neat  appearance.  And  there 
being  women  some  of  them  probably  have  a  dress  or 
two  to  spare.  I  will  endeavor  to  negotiate  with  the  land 
lord  for  a  suitable  costume  for  your  brother." 

"Excellent.    I  will  await  you  here." 

The  village  is  quiet  as  a  churchyard  when  Ashley 


THE    METAMORPHOSIS    OF   DON    CARLOS.         253 

reaches  the  hotel.  Lights  are  visible,  however,  and  a 
few  raps  upon  the  portals  bring  forth  the  landlord. 

Carter  receives  back  his  Grand  Army  habiliments 
without  comment,  but  his  face  is  a  study  when  Ashley 
broaches  the  idea  of  a  feminine  rig. 

"By  gum,"  he  exclaims;  "you're  the  funniest  customer 
I've  run  up  against  in  all  my  Cuban  hotel  business,  and 
I  have  met  some  queer  ones,  too." 

"My  dear  Carter,"  confides  Ashley,  "as  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  am  not  altogether  right  in  my  head.  I  am  seized 
at  frequent  periods  with  the  most  absurd  notions.  For 
tunately,  I  always  have  money  enough  to  gratify  my 
freakish  ideas." 

"I  am  not  so  soft  as  I  look,"  remarks  Carter,  dryly. 
"I'll  see  what  I  can  do  for  you.  How  soon  do  you  want 
the  clothes?'' 

"As  usual,  at  once.  And  while  they  are  being  hunted 
up  I  wish  you  would  have  my  horse  saddled,  as  I  must 
take  the  road  within  the  hour.  It  is  getting  along  toward 
midnight.  Where  are  the  troopers — drunk  or  asleep?" 

"Both,  most  of  them,"  is  the  laconic  response,  as  the 
boniface  takes  himself  off  to  consult  with  his  wife  upon 
the  subject  of  providing  a  costume  for  a  slender  young 
man  about  five  feet  in  height,  as  Ashley  describes  the 
prospective  wearer  of  the  garments. 

Landlord  Carter  has  a  daughter  who  rejoices  in  the 
possession  of  three  dresses.  This  alone  should  consti 
tute  her  the  belle  of  Jibana.  For  a  sum  sufficient  to 
double  her  wardrobe  the  young  lady  is  induced  to  part 
with  the  best  of  her  three  outfits  and  a  bargain  is  con 
summated. 

Miss  Carter  is  not  at  all  pleased  at  being  routed  from 
her  slumbers,  but  she  is  a  rather  pretty  young  woman, 
and  after  five  minutes  of  Ashley's  persuasive  eloquence 
the  landlord's  daughter  beams  with  good  nature  and 
laughingly  inquires:  "Do  you  want  a  complete  cos 
tume?" 

"To 'the  last  ribbon,"  declares  Jack.  "By  Jove!"  he 
adds,  mentally,  "if  Carlos  proposes  to  impersonate  a 


254  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

young  lady,  he  shall  not  lack  verisimilitude  through  any 
neglect  on  my  part." 

"A  thousand  thanks,  Miss  Carter,"  says  Ashley,  when 
the  clothes  are  finally  tied  in  a  big  bundle  and  given  into 
his  possession. 

"Isn't  this  too  much?"  demurs  the  young  lady,  glancing 
at  the  gold  coin  which  he  places  in  her  hands. 

"Not  a  bit,"  replies  Jack.  ''If  it  is" — he  glances  around, 
sees  that  papa  Carter  has  disappeared,  and  snatches  a  kiss 
from  the  young  lady's  red  lips — "if  it  is,  will  you  permit 
me  to  balance  the  debt?"  he  finishes.  Miss  Carter 
blushes  furiously,  but  she  does  not  reprove  the  audacity. 
Good-looking  young  men,  alas,  are  few  in  Jibana. 

Half  an  hour  later  Ashley  turns  the  bundle  of  apparel 
over  to  Navarro  and  receives  the  latters  warmest  thanks. 
"At  what  time  do  we  start?"  Jack  inquires. 

"At  daybreak.  You  will  need  a  few  hours'  rest  before 
then." 

"I  can  use  them  all  right.  But  suppose  Alvarez'  men 
come  nosing  around  after  their  absent  leader?" 

"They  will  not  find  him.  Follow  me  and  I  will  lead 
you  to  our  camp  for  the  night.  I  shall  send  with  you 
as  a  guide  a  man  who  knows  the  country  well.'' 

With  the  dawn  the  little  party  is  under  way.  Ashley 
stares  in  astonishment  at  the  metamorphosis  that  has  been 
effected  in  the  person  of  Carlos.  And  as  Carlos  raises 
his  veil  and  returns  Jack's  stare  with  a  glance  in  which 
amusement  is  mingled  with  blushing  diffidence,  the  news 
paper  man  laughs  outright. 

"I  told  you  he  would  look  the  part  to  perfection," 
remarks  the  elder  Navarro,  as  he  comes  forward  to  say 
adios.  "Take  good  care  of  him,  Ashley,  mi  amigo.  He 
is  very  dear  to  me." 

"For  your  sake  I  will  guard  him  with  jealous  care," 
replies  Ashley.  "Good-by,  Navarro.  I  hope  to  see  you 
again  before  many  days." 

"Most  heartily  do  I  echo  the  wish.  But  who  can  say 
what  the  future  has  in  store?"  murmurs  the  insurgent 
leader.  He  watches  the  little  cavalcade  until  it  disappears 


THE  DOVE  AND  THE  SERPENT.       255 

down  the  forest  trail  and  then  turns  toward  the  mountains 
with  a  heavy  sigh. 

Ashley  drops  to  the  rear  of  the  little  procession,  lights 
a  cigar  and  relapses  into  a  reverie.  Suddenly  he  bethinks 
him  of  the  locket  which  he  picked  up  on  the  scene  of 
last  night's  struggle. 

Although  his  eyes  never  before  rested  upon  it,  as  he 
looks  at  it  now  the  locket  has  almost  a  familiar  appear 
ance.  He  is  somewhat  prepared  for  the  surprise  which 
follows  his  pressing  of  the  spring. 

The  locket  formerly  contained  two  miniatures.  One 
has  been  removed.  That  which  yet  remains  is  an  exquis 
ite  portrait  of  Louise  Hathaway. 

As  Ashley  stares  at  the  gold  ornament  with  its  broken 
bit  of  chain  he  realizes  that  he  is  looking  upon  the  locket 
supposed  to  have  been  removed  from  the  watch-chain 
of  Roger  Hathaway  the  night  the  aged  cashier  came  to 
his  death  in  the  Raymond  National  Bank. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE  DOVE  AND  THE  SERPENT. 

"Whoa,  Rozinante !  If  thou  art  as  weary  of  this  road 
as  I,  good  beast,  a  rest  will  not  go  against  thy  grain, 
or  grass.  What  say  you  to  a  halt  of  half  an  hour  within 
the  shade  of  this  royal  palm?" 

It  is  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  since  Ashley's 
return  to  Santiago,  and,  having  parted  with  Don  Carlos 
and  the  escorting  party  on  the  edge  of  Santos,  this 
is  the  first  opportunity  Jack  has  had  to  ride  out  to  La 
Quinta  de  Quesada  and  pay  his  respects  to  Don  Manuel's 
beautiful  daughter;  for  the  last  three  days  have  been 
busy  ones  for  the  newspaper  man.  Truenos  has  arrived 
with  his  fleet  from  Havana,  and  the  next  week  promises 
to  be  big  with  the  fate  of  Cuba  Libre. 

Ashley  left  Santiago  an  hour  ago,  and  at  the  rate  he 


256  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

has  been  traveling — the  heat  precludes  a  gait  faster  than 
a  moderate  amble — he  judges  that  he  has  covered  three 
of  the  four  miles  to  Santos. 

Hitching  the  amiable  Rozinante,  he  throws  himselt 
upon  the  turf  beneath  the  foliage-massed  branches  of  the 
royal  palm,  and  lights  a  cigar;  as  he  smokes  he  grows 
thoughtful.  And  from  rumination  he  drifts  into  moral 
izing,  addressing  himself  to  Rozinante. 

"Look  here,  Rozinante;  if  you  have  any  horse  sense 
that  you're  not  using  you  might  assist  your  master  to 
extricate  himself  from  somewhat  of  a  quandary.  As  you 
know,  I  came  to  Cuba  principally  on  business  for  my 
paper,  incidentally  to  trail  down  a  murder  mystery  and 
again  incidentally  to  follow  a  fair  face  belonging  to  the 
beautiful  Louise  Hathaway.  A  good  many  chaps  in  my 
place  would  have  fallen  hopelessly  in  love  with  Miss 
Hathaway  at  first  sight,  but  I — well,  that  is  not  the  cause 
of  my  quandary.  If  it  were,  I  could  easily  dismiss  it 
with  a  philosophical  'there  is  no  accounting  for  the  tastes 
of  most  women.'  Ah,  no,  Rozinante;  it  is  something 
far  more  serious;  for  what  I  want  to  ask  you,  Rozinante, 
is  whether  you  believe  that  I,  in  my  old  age,  have  been 
so  indiscreet  as  to  fall  in  love?'' 

But  Rozinante,  being  a  well-bred  equine,  declines  to 
poke  his  nose  into  young  people's  affairs  and  continues 
his  grass-cropping. 

"See  how  the  case  stands,  Rozinante,"  continues  Jack, 
tossing  a  pebble  at  his  four-footed  companion  to  enforce 
attention.  "On  the  one  hand  is  the  Senorita  Juanita  de 
Quesada,  the  acknowledged  Pearl  of  the  Antilles,  the 
adored  of  all  the  beaux  in  Santiago;  Juanita,  the  beauti 
ful,  the  accomplished,  and  the  only  child  of  the  wealthy 
and  elderly  Don  Manuel  de  Quesada,  who  is  likely  to 
become  the  president  de  facto  of  this  cheerful  country  if 
the  yellow  fever  continues  to  wilt  the  imported  flower  of 
the  chivalry  of  Spain.  On  the  other  hand,  Rozinante, 
look  at  me." 

At  this  moment  Rozinante  lifts  his  head  and  blinks 
comically  at  Ashley,  who  grins  back  in  the  best  of 
humors. 


THE  DOVE  AND  THE  SERPENT.       257 

"Oh,  I  know  what  you  are  thinking  about,  Rozinante. 
You  are  saying  to  yourself:  'What  a  presumptuous  fel 
low!  But  he  is  just  like  all  Americans.'  Well,  you  are 
not  far  from  right,  Rozzy.  We  Americans  are  a  bit 
fresh.  But  that  is  a  digression.  To  return  to  our  sub 
ject,  which  is  the  always  agreeable  one  of  myself.  Now, 
I  am  not  a  bad-looking  chap.  You  can  see  that,  Roz, 
with  one  eye.  And  I  am  fairly  bright  and  all  that.  But 
hang  it!  I  haven't  a  bank  account  bigger  than  three 
figures,  and  it  will  require  nerve,  my  grass-eating  friend, 
to  step  up  to  the  wealthy  Don  Quesada  and  say:  'Don, 
old  boy,  I  love  your  daughter.  May  I  ask  your  blessing?' 
No  one  ever  accused  me  of  lacking  in  nerve,  but  have  I 
enough  to  supply  the  demand  of  such  an  occasion?  Of 
course,  if  Don  Quesada  becomes  president  of  the  repub 
lic  of  Cuba,  and  makes  me  his  cabinet-premier,  I  might 
buy  a  sugar  plantation  and  become  enormously  wealthy. 
But  that,  Rozinante,  as  you  are  probably  aware,  is  a 
twenty-to-one  shot. 

"The  most  perplexing  feature  of  the  whole  affair  is 
the  fact  that  I  have  no  good  reason  to  suppose  that  the 
dark-eyed  Juanita  returns  in  the  slightest  degree  the  deep 
interest  which  I  feel  in  her  personal  welfare.  I  know  that 
she  likes  me — why  shouldn't  she? — but  her  maidenly 
reserve  I  do  not  seem  to  be  able  to  successfully  penetrate. 
Again,  my  equine  friend,  I  am  not  so  certain  that  she  is 
not  hopelessly  in  love  with  that  effeminate,  downy- 
cheeked,  pink-and-white  and  milk-and-water  Don  Carlos. 

And  how  any  woman  can But,  pshaw!  What  is 

the  use  in  quarreling  with  the  chap?  And  what  is  the 
use  of  my  lounging  longer  here,  talking  at  an  unappre- 
ciative  audience?  Ah,  Juanita,  if  you  would  but  encour 
age  me  a  bit  I  would  soon  solve  my  perplexity.  Just  a 
draught  from  this  spring  back  in  the  bushes,  Rozinante, 
and  then  we  will  jog  along  toward  Santos." 

As  Ashley  bends  over  the  spring  the  grating  of  carriage 
wheels  sounds  in  the  road. 

A  volante  flashes  by  at  what  seems  reckless  speed; 
but  the  Cuban  volante  cannot  upset.  Two  ladies  are  in 
the  vehicle,  and  as  they  sweep  by  they  glance  curiously 


258  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

at  the  tethered  horse.  An  instant  later  they  are  gone, 
and  the  young  man  who  emerges  hastily  from  the  bushes 
and  looks  down  the  dust-veiled  road  emits  a  long,  low 
whistle. 

"Juanita!  And  unless  my  usually  correct  vision  is 
deceived,  her  companion  is  my  old  friend  Isabel  Harding. 
The  dove  and  the  serpent!  What  the  deuce  is  the  mean 
ing  of  this  unholy  intimacy?  By  heaven,  Rozinante/' 
mutters  Ashley,  as  he  untethers  his  horse  and  vaults  into 
the  saddle,  "the  presence  of  Isabel  Harding  at  Santos 
augurs  no  good  to  the  house  of  Quesada.  Don  Manuel 
must  be  warned  at  once."  And  kicking  Rozinante's 
ample  sides  Ashley  forces  that  amiable  beast  into  a  violent 
canter. 

The  remainder  of  the  journey  is  quickly  covered,  and 
as  Jack  reins  up  at  La  Quinta  de  Quesada,  Don  Manuel 
comes  out  and  greets  him  cordially. 

"Welcome,  Senor  Ashley.  You  are  quite  a  stranger. 
We  had  begun  to  fear  that  the  Spanish  press  censors 
had  suppressed  you."  Then,  dropping  his  voice  to  a 
cautious  undertone:  "Any  news  from  the  field?" 

"Yes,  and  rather  good  news.  It  is  reported  in  Santiago 
that  your  yacht,  the  Pearl  of  the  Antilles,  engaged  a 
Spanish  ship  of  war  yesterday,  and  that  El  Terredo, 
after  lying  alongside,  fought  a  desperate  and  winning 
battle  on  the  decks  of  the  enemy's  vessel." 

"Bueno!"  Don  Quesada's  eyes  light  up  with  pleasure. 
"Ah,  Senor  Ashley,  there  is  a  fighter  after  your  own 
American  heart.  If  we  had  a  thousand  such  men  we 
should  drive  the  Spanish  into  the  sea  and  off  our  loved 
island  forever." 

"I  was  passed  on  the  road  from  Santiago  by  your 
daughter,"  remarks  Jack,  as  he  sits  down  in  front  of  a 
brimming  glass.  "Will  she  be  absent  long?" 

"For  the  entire  evening.  Surely  you  have  not  over 
looked  the  grand  ball  to  be  given  to-night  by  the  new 
captain-general;  a  gathering  of  beauty  and  of  chivalry, 
to  express  his  supreme  contempt  of  th«  insignificance  of 
the  Cuban  cause,"  says  Don  Queseda,  with  faint  irony. 

"By  Jove!    I  had  overlooked  it.    The  senorita  was 


THE  DOVE  AND  THE  SERPENT.       259 

accompanied  by  another  lady.    May  I  inquire  her  name?" 

"Certainly.     She  is  Mrs.  Isabel  Harding." 

"I  thought  so,"  mutters  Jack.    Then: 

"What  is  her  business  here?" 

"Mrs.  Harding  is  my  guest,"  replies  Don  Quesada, 
rather  curtly. 

"She  has  been  here  long?'' 

"About  ten  days." 

Jack  stares  and  bites  his  cigar  viciously.  "You  will 
pardon  my  questioning,  Don  Queseda.  Believe  me,  I 
am  not  actuated  by  idle  curiosity." 

The  Don  bows  and  Jack  leans  over  and  asks,  earnestly: 

"During  Mrs.  Harding's  stay  here  has  she  learned  any 
thing  that  would  lead  her  to  suspect  that  you  are  identi 
fied  with  the  movement  to  free  Cuba?" 

"Naturally.    She  is  one  of  us,"  replies  the  Don,  dryly. 

"One  of  us!"  repeats  Jack,  in  astonishment. 

"Yes.  An  American,  like  yourself;  she  is  an  enthu 
siastic  adherent  of  the  Cuban  cause  and  is  enabled  to  do 
us  much  service." 

"Then  you  have  trusted  her  with  some  secrets?" 

"She  is  at  this  moment  the  bearer  of  important  dis 
patches  to  Captain  Francisco  Guerra." 

"Great  Scott!"  Jack  jumps  to  his  feet.  Don  Quesada 
rises  with  him  and  demands: 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  I  believe  Mrs.  Harding  to  be  a  spy  in  the 
employ  of  the  Spanish  government,  and  that  you  have 
signed  and  given  into  her  hands  your  own  death  warrant 
and  the  utter  ruin  of  your  friends!" 

It  is  a  cruel  blow.  Don  Quesada  staggers  under  it 
and  sinks  helplessly  into  his  chair.  Jack  pours  him  out 
a  draught  of  wine  and  then  paces  to  and  fro  on  the 
veranda,  his  active  mind  intent  on  some  path  of  escape 
from  the  desperate  situation. 

"At  what  hour  does  the  ball  begin?"  he  demands. 

"At  eight,  I  believe,"  replies  Don  Quesada,  faintly. 
He  is  completely  crushed. 

"It  is  now  nearly  six/'  muses  Jack,  glancing  at  his 


260  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

watch.  "And  Guerra?  Where  was  he  to  receive  the 
dispatches?" 

"At  the  ball." 

"Quick!  Pen  and  paper,"  requests  Jack.  And  as  Don 
Quesada  hurries  away  to  comply  the  young  man  mur 
murs:  "There  is  only  one  chance  in  a  thousand,  but  I 
must  take  it." 

When  the  stationery  is  brought  Jack  inquires:  "In 
what  form  were  the  dispatches  sent?" 

"In  a  plain  envelope,  such  as  you  have  there." 

"Good."  Jack  writes  hurriedly  a  few  moments,  passes 
what  he  has  written  over  to  Don  Quesada,  and  com 
manding  simply,  "Copy  that,"  busies  himself  over  another 
letter. 

Don  Quesada  follows  the  directions  without  question, 
but  as  he  writes  a  little  of  hope  comes  into  his  pale  face, 
and  he  looks  admiringly  at  Jack,  with  the  remark:  "Can 
you  do  it?" 

"Quien  sabe?  It's  a  desperate  chance."  Jack  glances 
approvingly  at  the  letter  which  the  Don  has  sealed,  places 
it  in  his  pocket  and  then  addresses  and  seals  the  second 
letter,  which  he  gives  to  the  Cuban  president. 

"You  must  leave  here  at  once.    Where  is  Don  Carlos?" 

"He  is  here." 

"He  must  accompany  you.  You  must  make  your  way 
with  all  haste  as  secretly  as  possible  to  Santiago  and  go 
aboard  the  United  States  cruiser  America.  This  letter 
will  explain  all,  and  make  you  welcome.  Once  under 
the  stars  and  stripes  you  will  be  safe  when  the  storm 
breaks." 

"But  my  daughter!"  cries  the  Don,  suddenly  recollect 
ing  the  beautiful  Pearl  of  the  Antilles.  Jack's  eyes  grow 
tender,  and,  gripping  the  older  man  by  the  hand,  he 
says  proudly,  as  their  eyes  meet. 

"Don  Quesada,  I  love  your  daughter.  I  will  answer 
for  her  safety  with  my  life.  And  now,  Pm  off.  Remem 
ber — to  Santiago  at  once.  Adios!" 

And  without  waiting  to  ascertain  how  his  declaration 
of  love  affects  the  father  of  his  loved  one,  Jack  springs 
into  the  saddle  and  clatters  away. 


PLAYING   FOR   HIGH    STAKES.  261 

CHAPTER  XLVI. 

PLAYING  FOB  HIGH  STAKES. 

Scarcely  has  a  third  of  the  distance  to  Santiago  been 
covered  when  horse  and  rider  realize  that  the  pace  set 
is  no  longer  compatible  with  the  Cuban  climate.  As 
Rozinante  settles  into  a  walk,  Ashley  pulls  vigorously 
on  a  fresh  cigar  and  revolves  the  situation  in  his  mind. 

"Credulous  fool!"  he  grumbles,  thinking  of  the  be 
trayed  Don  Manuel  de  Quesada.  "Played  right  into  the 
enemy's  hands.  But  wiser  and  greater  men  have  been 
cozened  by  the  smiles  of  a  beautiful  woman.  Besides, 
he  is  Juanita's  father.  That  covers  a  multitude  of  short 
comings.  Ah,  Juanita,  I  must  indeed  love  thee  when  I 
would  willingly  risk  my  valuable  life  in  thy  behalf.  I 
am  not  a  hypocrite,  and  I  confess  that  an  absorbing 
interest  in  my  personal  welfare  has  ever  been  one  of  my 
glittering  characteristics." 

''Those  papers  must  be  recovered.  But  how?  But  I 
have  a  mighty  big  job  on  my  hands,  even  if  Truenos 
is  not  a  Richelieu.  Well,  it  is  the  pen  against  the  sword, 
and  may  heaven  maintain  the  vaunted  mightiness  of  the 
pen.'' 

It  is  something  after  seven  o'clock  when  Ashley  arrives 
at  Santiago.  The  first  acquaintance  he  meets,  after  he 
has  put  up  his  horse  and  proceeded  toward  his  hotel,  is 
General  Murillo. 

"Of  course  you  are  going  to  the  ball?"  remarks  Ashley, 
as  they  shake  hands. 

Most  assuredly  General  Murillo  will  be  there.  It  will 
be  a  grand  affair.  Senor  Ashley  must  attend,  by  all 
means. 

Senor  Ashley  means  to  be  there,  and  he  thanks  Gen 
eral  Murillo  for  an  offer  to  introduce  him  to  a  score 
of  the  prettiest  maids  in  Cuba.  And  when  the  general 
insists  upon  his  American  friend  dining  with  him,  the 
latter  quickly  accepts.  He  has  no  time  to  waste,  he  tells 
himself,  but  he  is  much  relieved  when,  in  reply  to  his 


262  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

query,  "And  Truenos,  is  he  at  the  palace?"  General 
Murillo  informs  him  that  the  captain-general  has  been 
called  to  Mentos,  ten  miles  distant,  on  business  of  an  im 
portant  nature,  and  will  probably  be  late  in  arriving  at  the 
festivities,  which  will  not,  however,  be  delayed. 

The  first  flash  of  hope  comes  to  Ashley  at  this  intelli 
gence,  and  he  dines  with  a  lighter  heart.  After  half  an 
hour  of  chat  on  commonplace  topics,  he  manages  to  ask 
with  well-played  indifference: 

"At  what  time  did  Truenos  leave  for  Mentos,  gen 
eral?" 

"Early  this  afternoon." 

Ah,  then  it  is  not  yet  too  late.  Ashley  breathes 
easier. 

"Well,  general,  you  are  a  loyal  adherent  of  Spain  and 
I  am  an  out-and-out  American.  There  is  no  chance  for 
an  argument  between  us.  Let  me  fill  your  glass  and  we 
will  drink  a  toast  to  all  honest  men  and  women,  whether 
Spaniards  or  Cubans." 

"With  pleasure,  Senor  Ashley.  To  all  honest  men — 
and  women." 

"Which  does  not  include  your  amiable  friend,  Mrs. 
Harding,"  thinks  Ashley,  as  he  raises  the  glass  to  his 
lips. 

The  dinner  finished,  the  two  men  separate,  while  Ash 
ley  exchanges  his  travel-worn  garments  for  an  evening 
dress.  Half  an  hour  later  he  and  General  Murillo  leave 
for  the  palace. 

"I  have  a  vague  suspicion  that  I  am  booked  for  an 
exciting  evening,"  muses  Jack,  as  he  enters  the  brilliantly 
lighted  sala  of  the  palace  and  is  duly  presented  by 
Murillo. 

The  dancing  has  already  begun,  but  Terpsichore  is  the 
last  goddess  he  is  desirous  of  wooing  on  this  particular 
evening.  His  gaze  wanders  solicitously  about  the  crowd 
ed  room  and  rests  at  last  upon  her  whom  he  seeks — 
Juanita. 

"She  is  simply  stunning  to-night,"  he  mutters,  nerv 
ously  tugging  at  his  mustache. 

And  indeed  Juanita  is  radiantly  beautiful.     Her  dark 


PLAYING   FOR   HIGH    STAKES.  263 

loveliness  is  set  off  by  a  bewitching  gown  of  white;  she 
is  fanning  herself  with  that  lazily  graceful  motion  which 
the  Saxon  cannot  imitate  successfully,  and  at  the  moment 
that  Ashley  discovers  her  she  is  telling  Captain  Ramon 
Huerta,  who  has  requested  with  Spanish  extravagance 
"the  exquisite  honor  and  incomparable  delight  of  a  figure 
with  her,"  that  she  really  does  not  care  to  dance  this 
evening.  At  which  Captain  Huerta  looks  disappointed 
and  scowls  a  trifle.  But  he  continues  to  inflict  upon  her 
a  presence  which  is  palpably  unwelcome. 

Juanita's  eyes  light  up  with  unfeigned  pleasure  when 
Ashley  arrives  upon  the  scene  and  she  greets  him  with 
unreserved  cordiality.  She  presents  him  to  Captain 
Huerta,  who  bows  as  stiffly  as  he  holds  his  revolver  arm. 
Ashley  returns  the  salute  with  a  suspicion  of  exaggera 
tion,  and  grins  maliciously  when  the  Spaniard  takes  him 
self  off,  after  bestowing  a  glance  of  unmistakable  enmity 
upon  the  American. 

Juanita  gazes  after  the  retreating  form  with  distinct 
aversion.  "I  have  a  strange  fear  of  that  man,"  she  con 
fides  to  Ashley,  who  smiles  reassuringly  and  tells  her 
that  while  she  is  in  his  vicinity  there  should  be  no  such 
word  as  fear  in  her  bright  lexicon  of  youth. 

Juanita  rewards  this  gallant  speech,  which  from  anyone 
except  Jack  Ashley  would  sound  boastful,  with  a  glance 
that  sets  the  American's  blood  tingling.  But  he  has  no 
time  to-night  for  love-making,  whether  his  suit  be  favored 
or  hopeless,  and  as  he  drops  into  a  chair  beside  the  Pearl 
of  the  Antilles  he  asks  casually:  "Where  is  your  friend, 
Mrs.  Harding?" 

"Ah,  you  know  Isabel? 

'You  passed  me  this  afternoon  on  the  road  to  Santos, 
whither  I  was  proceeding  to  pay  my  most  humble  re 
spects." 

"Then  that  horse  by  the  big  royal  palm  was  yours?" 

"Even  so.  I  was  close  by,  but  your  volante  swept 
past  at  such  a  pace  that  I  hardly  recovered  from  my 
surprise  at  seeing  you  before  you  were  gone." 

"I  am  sorry  we  started  away  so  early/'  Juanita  says, 
regretfully. 


264  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"So  am  I,"  Ashley  thinks,  grimly,  but  he  does  not  tell 
her  why. 

"I  have  seen  nothing  of  Mrs.  Harding  since  I  arrived,'' 
he  remarks. 

Juanita's  glance  wanders  about  the  room.  "There  she 
is,"  she  indicates,  "over  by  the  staircase,  the  object  of 
the  devoted  attentions  of  Count  Gonzaga.'' 

"Who  the  deuce  is  Count  Gonzaga?''  wonders  Ashley, 
and  he  intimates  as  much  to  his  companion. 

"Have  you  not  met  the  count?  General  Jacinto  de 
Gonzaga  is  his  military  title.  He  is  some  sort  of  an 
assistant  secretary  of  war  and  is  representing  the  home 
government  in  Cuba  for  a  short  time.  He  seems  des 
perately  smitten  with  Isabel.  She  is  very  handsome,  do 
you  not  think  so,  Senor  Ashley?'' 

"Yes,  very,"  replies  Jack,  absently.  He  is  watching 
the  pair  by  the  staircase,  and  wondering  what  sort  of  a 
game  Isabel  Harding  is  now  playing. 

"She  is  coming  this  way,"  says  Juanita.  "Have  you 
met  her?" 

"I  have  not  had  that  pleasure,"  Ashley  replies,  unblush- 
ingly.  "Not  lately,'  he  mentally  adds. 

He  turns  away  to  admire  some  flowers  and  soon  he 
hears  Juanita's  voice:  "Isabel,  allow  me  to  present  Mr. 
Ashley  to  you.  Mr.  Ashley,  Mrs.  Harding." 

Ashley  turns  calmly  and  the  two  are  face  to  face.  She 
acknowledges  the  introduction  with  a  composure  equal 
to  Ashley's  own,  and  that  young  man  permits  a  trace 
of  admiration  to  mingle  with  the  expression  in  his  eyes 
which  plainly  says  to  the  woman  before  him:  "I  know 
your  game,  my  lady."  And  the  answering  flash  from  the 
midnight  orbs  is:  "You  have  more  than  a  match  in  me, 
Mr.  Ashley.  Beware!" 

"We  shall  see,"  thinks  Ashley,  and  then,  led  by  Juanila, 
who  sees  nothing  of  the  mutual  recognition,  the  conver 
sation  drifts  into  the  usual  chatter  of  the  ball-room. 

"You  remember,  Isabel,  that  big  horse  we  saw  lunching 
so  contentedly  by  the  road  this  afternoon?''  prattles 
Juanita. 


PLAYING    FOR    HIGH    STAKES.  265 

"Yes,  dear,  and  how  we  wondered  whether  its  owner 
was  enjoying  a  siesta  in  the  bushes." 

"Well,  it  was  Mil  Ashley's  horse." 

"I  saw  you  flit  by,"  supplements  Ashley,  "but  I  was 
back  drinking  at  a  spring  and  your  volante  was  out  of 
sight  before  I  had  recovered  from  my  surprise  at  seeing 
you."  He  is  looking  directly  at  Mrs.  Harding  and  that 
lady  smiles,  a  bit  ironically. 

"And  I  presume  that  when  you  saw  the  principal  attrac 
tion  of  El  Valle  de  Bosque  Cillos  being  borne  toward 
Santiago,  you  mounted  your  horse  and  sadly  followed," 
ventures  Isabel. 

"No;  I  knew  the  senorita  was  in  good  company,"  Jack 
responds,  dryly,  "so  I  continued  on  to  Santos  and  spent 
a  profitable  hour  with  Don  Quesada." 

"Ah!"  Mrs.  Harding  regards  him  narrowly  from  be 
tween  her  half-dropped  eyelids. 

"I  say  profitable,"  continues  Ashley,  "as  I  did  not 
know,  until  so  informed,  that  Don  Quesada  numbered 
the  charming  Mrs.  Harding  in  his  list  of  acquaintances." 

"Of  course  you  congratulated  him." 

"Most  assuredly." 

The  half-veiled  contempt  expressed  in  Isabel's  face 
exasperates  Ashley.  Hidden  somewhere  in  that  corsage, 
against  which  beats  the  falsest  heart  in  Cuba,  are  papers 
that  mean  the  ruin  of  the  innocent  girl  at  his  side. 

He  must  have  time  to  think,  think,  think.  So  he 
excuses  himself  and  leaves  the  crowded  ball-room  for 
a  walk  in  the  cool  air  of  the  garden. 

In  one  corner  of  the  spacious  inclosure  he  finds  a  little 
arbor,  and  in  this  nook  Ashley  sits  and  smokes  and  thinks, 
but  no  plan  for  the  confusion  of  the  adventuress  suggests 
itself,  unless,  as  he  growls  vindictively,  he  abducts  or 
chloroforms  her. 

His  meditations  are  disturbed  by  voices  close  at  hand. 
Two  gentlemen  have,  like  himself,  forsaken  the  heated 
ball-room  for  the  outer  air,  and  they  pause  in  their  stroll 
within  a  few  feet  of  Ashley's  retreat. 

Jack  pays  no  attention  to  them  until  by  their  voices 
and  conversation  he  realizes  that  one  of  them  is  Captain 


266  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

Julio  Alvarez  and  the  other  is  Count  Gonzaga.  "That's 
a  happy  combination,"  he  laughs  softly.  "They  ought  to 
get  a  few  more  of  Isabel's  friends  and  hold  a  reunion." 

"You  are  an  excellent  judge  of  beauty,  Count  Gon 
zaga,"  he  hears  Alvarez  remark,  with  a  faint  sneer.  "I 
have  been  noticing  your  devotion  to  the  handsome  Mrs. 
Harding,  the  widow  of  the  enormously  wealthy  ship 
owner." 

"Ah,  amigo,  is  she  not  beautiful?"  the  count  replies, 
enthusiastically.  He  appears  to  be  in  rare  spirits.  "I 
must  ask  you  to  congratulate  me,  Captain  Alvarez." 

"I  have — on  your  excellent  taste." 

"On  more,  amigo.  The  beautiful  American  has  con 
sented  to  become  the  Countess  Gonzaga." 

"The  devil!" 

"You  are  surprised." 

"Rather.  I  am  surprised  that  a  gentleman  of  Count 
Gonzaga's  position  should  think  of  linking  his  name  with 
a  lady  of  her  character." 

"Por  Dios!  Your  meaning?"  cries  the  count,  with  a 
flash  of  Castilian  wrath  that  causes  Captain  Alvarez  to 
curse  his  hasty  words,  which  must  have  emanated  from 
jealousy  or  something  deeper.  Ashley  wonders  what. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  Alvarez  replies,  carelessly.    "You  must 

pardon  my  unthinking  remark,  count.  Believe  me, 
j >» 

"You  will  explain  yourself  to  me,  and  at  once,  senor," 
declares  Gonzaga,  with  frigid  emphasis. 

There  is  a  silence,  which  Alvarez,  who  sees  that  he  is 
in  for  it,  finally  breaks  with:  "Very  well,  count,  but  I 
warn  you  that  you  will  regret  your  insistence.  You  will 
have  to  excuse  me  now,  as  I  have  promised  to  dance  this 
next  figure.  Meet  me  at  this  place  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
hence,  and  I  will  endeavor  to  satisfy  you." 

"Very  good,"  grits  Gonzaga.  "I  will  be  prompt,"  and 
the  men  separate. 

"The  fair  Isabel  is  a  star,  surely,"  soliloquizes  Ashley. 
"Who  would  have  dreamed  that  she  was  playing  her 
cards  for  the  role  of  a  countess?  Alas!  Gonzaga  will  be 


THE   PEN   WINS.  267 

brutally  undeceived  by  Alvarez.  The  latter  has  put  his 
foot  in  it' and  there  is  only  one  way  out.  Jupiter!" 

Ashley  leaps  to  his  feet,  for  the  inspiration  of  his  life 
has  come  to  him. 

"By  George,  I  have  it!  But  will  she  do  it?"  he  cries. 
"She  must  do  it.  It  is  not  her  nature,  still  it's  a  chance, 
and  if  the  fates  are  on  the  side  of  right  Don  Quesada  and 
the  senorita  are  saved!" 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

THE   PEN  WINS. 

Upon  his  return  to  the  ball-room  Ashley  is  taken  to 
task  by  General  Murillo.  "I  have  been  searching  for  you 
for  over  half  an  hour,"  the  general  assures  him.  "Come 
over  here  while  I  introduce  you  to  the  prettiest  girl  in 
Cuba." 

"Confound  his  kindness,"  grumbles  Jack,  mentally, 
who  has  no  time  to  squander  in  talking  nonsense  with 
dark-eyed  senoritas.  There  is  work  to  be  done.  But 
he  follows  Murillo  over  the  floor  and  is  amused  to  find 
himself  being  introduced  to  Juanita  de  Quesada,  who  is 
the  center  of  attraction  of  a  group  of  young  Santiago 
swells. 

"Oh,  Senor  Ashley  and  I  are  old  friends,"  cries  Juanita, 
smiling  at  General  Murillo. 

"Are  you,  indeed?"  remarks  the  general,  favoring  the 
American  with  a  keen  glance.  "Well,  I  will  leave  you 
together  with  my  blessing,"  and  the  warrior  takes  himself 
off. 

"I  have  much  to  tell  you  to-night,  senorita,  but  at 
another  moment,"  Ashley  says,  as  he  makes  his  excuses 
for  terminating  a  conversation  that  has  hardly  begun. 
"I  have  work  to  do,  and  it  means  much  to  you,"  he 
explains  to  the  pouting  young  lady,  and  leaving  her 


268  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

somewhat  mystified  and  not  at  all  pleased,  he  goes  off  to 
hunt  up  Isabel  Harding. 

He  finds  the  latter  alone.  For  excellent  reasons  Count 
Gonzaga  is  holding  himself  aloof.  Captain  Alvarez  is 
not  in  sight. 

"Don't  you  find  the  atmosphere  of  the  room  close?" 
he  inquires,  as  he  reaches  Isabel's  side. 

"Not  at  all.     I  am  entirely  cool/'  she  responds. 

"But  it  is  ever  so  much  pleasanter  in  the  garden,"  per 
sists  Ashley,  as  he  twists  his  mustache  and  meets  her 
curious  glance  with  a  smile  that  is  amiability  itself.  With 
out  another  word  she  rises  and  accepts  his  extended  arm. 

"How  delightful  it  is  out  here  under  the  stars,"  rattles 
on  Jack,  as  they  emerge  into  the  garden.  "These  glor 
ious  nights  almost  repay  one  for  the  sweltering  days. 
Ah,  here  is  an  ideal  summer  house.  You  will  find  it  as 
cozy  as  a  society  darling's  boudoir.  Won't  you  take  a 
seat?" 

Mrs.  Harding  laughs,  a  trifle  ironically,  as  she  sinks 
upon  the  wooden  bench  that  runs  around  the  interior. 

"Now,  Mr.  Ashley,"  she  remarks,  "will  you  be  good 
enough  to  inform  me  what  you  have  brought  me  out 
here  to  tell  me?" 

"With  pleasure,  madam,"  responds  Ashley,  dropping 
back  into  his  old  deliberate  self. 

"If  you  will  let  your  thoughts  stray  back  about  six 
weeks,  Mrs.  Harding,  you  will  perhaps  remember  that 
on  a  certain  evening  I  had  the  pleasure  of  relating  to  you 
a  fairy  tale,  to  assist  you  in  dissipating  the  monotony  of 
an  attendance  upon  the  French  ball.  The  fairy  tale 
lacked  the  closing  and  most  interesting  chapter,  you  will 
recall,  and  I  requested  that  you  supply  it.  'Not  to-night' 
you  protested,  but  you  kindly  promised  me  an  interview 
upon  the  following  forenoon. 

"That  promise,  I  regret  to  say,  you  broke  with  as  little 
ceremony  as  one  would " 

"I  presume,"  interrupts  Mrs.  Harding,  "that  it  will  be 
unnecessary  for  me  to  assign  my  reason  for  failing  to 
keep  my  promise." 

"Quite.     It  would  not  mend  matters.    Now,  suppose, 


THE    PEN   WINS.  269 

as  the  novelists  say,  we  take  up  the  thread  of  our  narra 
tive,  which  was  broken  when  I  left  your  box  at  the 
garden." 

"Suppose  we  do?    What  do  you  desire  of  me?" 

"I  wish  to  possess  myself  of  certain  information  in 
your  keeping." 

"Relative  to  that  Vermont  affair?" 

"Precisely." 

"I  can  tell  you  nothing," 

"Excuse  me.  Perhaps  you  mean  you  will  tell  me 
nothing." 

"As  you  please,  sir." 

"I  think  you  will,"  Jack  says,  calmly.  "Will  you  par 
don  a  cigar,  Mrs.  Harding?  Perhaps  the  smoke  ,will 
keep  these  inquisitive  mosquitoes  at  a  distance." 

Isabel  laughs  unpleasantly.  "Do  I  understand  you 
to  intimate  that  you  will  resort  to  force?"  she  inquires, 
sarcastically. 

"Assuredly;  although  I  don't  fancy  the  word  'force.' 
'Induce'  is  the  better  term." 

"A  truce  to  your  euphemism,  Mr.  Ashley.  I  am  curi 
ous  to  learn  what  possible  lever  you  can  possess." 

"I  shall  not  delay  the  information.  I  have  in  mind  a 
lever  whose  potency  you  can  readily  appreciate.  I  refer 
to  the  Count  de  Gonzaga." 

"Good  heavens!  What  do  you  mean?"  In  awed, 
whispered  tones. 

"I  think  you  grasp  my  meaning,"  Jack  returns,  coolly. 
"Or  will  it  be  necessary  for  me  to  relate  another  fairy  tale, 
concerning  a  beautiful  woman  who  posed  successfully 
for  a  time  as  the  widow  of  an  enormously  wealthy  Amer 
ican  ship-owner?" 

"You  would  not  dare " 

"I  would  dare  do  several  things,  if  the  occasion  for 
unusual  trepidity  seemed  to  arise.  Besides,  the  vaunted 
brotherhood  of  man " 

"The  vaunted  brotherhood  of  man  would  lead  you  to 
betray  a  defenseless  woman — one  who  never  did  you 
aught  of  harm,  would  it?"  pants  Isabel. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Harding,  consider  how  easily  you  may 


270  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

avert  such  an  unfortunate  denouement.  I  don't  care  a 
rap  about  Count  Gonzaga.  Conceding  your  natural 
charms,  which  are  legion,  the  count's  affections  are 
undoubtedly,  centered  in  your  supposed  fortune.  That  is 
usually  the  principal  item  in  the  matrimonial  calculations 
of  European  nobility  that  seeks  alliance  with  American 
beauty.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  should  rather  enjoy  seeing 
Gonzaga  thrown  down,  if  you  will  excuse  the  slang. 
Come.  A  bargain  is  a  bargain!" 

There  is  a  silence.  Isabel  is  presumably  weighing  the 
situation  carefully,  and  she  disappoints  Ashley  by  rising 
and  remarking:  "I  think  I  will  return  to  the  ball-room, 
Mr.  Ashley,  if  you  will  kindly  escort  me." 

"One  moment,"  detains  Jack.  Isabel  resumes  her  seat. 
"Have  you  carefully  considered  the  probable  result  of 
your  silence?" 

"Perfectly." 

"You  must  have  some  powerful  reason  for  sealing  your 
lips  on  that  Raymond  affair,"  comments  Jack;  and  then 
he  growls  under  his  breath:  "Why  in  thunder  don't  they 
come?" 

"We  may  as  well  terminate  this  interview.  Do  your 
worst,  Mr.  Ashley.'' 

"That  is  rather  theatric,  Mrs.  Harding,"  banters  Jack. 
"Clever  woman,  this,"  he  thinks.  "She  knows  I  would 
not  be  such  a  beastly  cad  as  to  tell  her  story  to  Gonzaga. 
Ah!" 

Footsteps  are  heard  approaching.  They  stop  just 
without  the  summer  house. 

"Stay!"  Ashley  whispers  in  Isabel's  ear.  "The  count  is 
here."  ' 

She  starts  to  ask,  "how  do  you  know  it  is  he?"  but 
remains  mute.  An  instant  later  the  new  arrival  is  joined 
by  another. 

"Captain  Alvarez!"  breathes  Jack,  gripping  Isabel's 
arm.  "Not  a  word!" 

Isabel  sinks  into  a  seat.  Ashley  can  feel  her  tremble. 
He  tosses  away  his  cigar  and  remains  standing.  The 
silence  that  broods  over  the  garden  nook  is  broken  by 


THE   PEN   WINS.  271 

Captain  Alvarez,  who  is  so  near  the  listeners  that  they 
could  reach  out  and  almost  touch  him. 

"While  I  can  find  no  objection,  Count  Gonzaga,  to 
satisfying  your  unfortunate  demand,  I  would  advise  that 
you  drop  this  matter  where  it  is.  No  good  can  come  of 
wittingly  injuring  your  amour  propre.  Believe  me '' 

"Captain  Alvarez,"  interrupts  the  count,  frigidly,  "you 
made  a  distinct  accusation  against  the  character  of  the 
lady  whom  I  have  honored  with  an  offer  of  my  hand. 
I  demand  that  you  retract  your  statement  and  apologize 
for  its  utterance,  or  prove  its  truth." 

"I  am  willing  to  recall  my  hasty  words,  count." 

"Then  you  lied?" 

There  is  a  short  but  eloquent  silence.  "Very  well,"  says 
Alvarez.  "I  perceive  that  you  are  determined  to  be 
wholly  undeceived  as  to  the  imposition  which  has  been 
put  upon  'you.  Know  then  that  the  wealthy  American 
widow,  Isabel  Harding,  is  neither  wealthy  nor  a  widow." 

"Not  a  widow?"  repeats  Count  Gonzaga.  "Caramba! 
What,  then,  is  she?" 

"What  you  will,"  replies  Alvarez,  indifferently.  "What 
usually  is  an  adventuress?'' 

"But  the  proof?  Dios!  The  proof?"  demands  the 
count.  Perchance  Alvarez  is  lying  to  him. 

A  low,  unpleasant  laugh  from  the  latter.  "I  had  the 
honor  of  being  at  one  time  the  very  good  friend  of 
madam,"  he  says. 

"Scoundrel!"  grits  Ashley  in  Mrs.  Harding's  ear.  The 
critical  moment  is  at  hand.  "Victory!"  murmurs  Jack, 
as  Mrs.  Harding,  who  has  risen  and  is  twisting  her  lace 
handkerchief  into  shreds,  gasps  once  or  twice  as  Alvarez 
finishes  his  brutal  story,  and  then  faints  in  Ashley's 
arms. 

"El  Diablo!"  the  latter  hears  the  count  ejaculate,  and 
with  the  mortification  in  his  voice  is  mingled  much  of 
mental  relief. 

"Rather  indelicate,  but  when  a  life  is  at  stake  delicacy 
must  go  by  the  board,"  mutters  Ashley. 

"Ah,  the  precious  papers !  Now,  my  lady,  we  will  part 
company." 


272  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

The  fanfare  of  trumpets  in  the  ball-room  announces 
that  the  captain-general  has  at  last  arrived  to  grace  the 
festivities  with  his  presence. 

"Have  you  quite  recovered?"  Ashley  asks  Isabel,  with 
as  much  solicitude  in  his  voice  as  he  can  command. 

"Yes,  thank  you.  You  see  I  am  yet  a  woman,"  she 
says  bitterly.  And  she  adds  in  tones  of  intense  hatred: 
"The  cur!  The  coward!  But  come,  let  us  return  to  the 
ball " 

They  have  reached  the  entrance  of  the  ball-room.  Mrs. 
Harding  stops  and  favors  Ashley  with  the  kindest  look 
she  has  ever  bestowed  upon  him. 

"Mr.  Ashley,  you  are  no  friend  of  mine.  In  fact,  you 
are  the  only  man  I  have  ever  feared.  But  I  know  you 
would  not  have  been  the  coward  that  Capt.  Alvarez  has 
proved." 

Ashley's  response  is  an  enigmatic  smile.  He  remarks, 
lightly:  "I  have  the  honor  of  wishing  you  a  very  good 
evening,  Mrs.  Harding." 

He  watches  her  disappear  in  the  crowd  and  sees  her 
a  few  moments  later  in  the  long  line  that  is  passing  the 
"reviewing  stand/'  As  she  pauses  an  instant  before  the 
captain-general  Ashley  notes  the  latter  incline  his  head 
slightly.  Some  words  are  spoken  and  Mrs.  Harding  con 
tinues  on. 

A  triumphant  smile  flits  over  Ashley's  face;  he  thinks 
exultingly: 

"The  pen  wins  this  time!    Now  for  Juanita!" 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

THE  SWORD  TRIUMPHANT. 

"You  are  in  unusually  good  spirits  this  evening,  Senor 
Ashley." 

"I  am  always  happy  when  I  am  near  you,  senorita,"  is 
Jack's  fervent  response.  At  which  speech,  the  warmest 


THE    SWORD   TRIUMPHANT.  273 

she  has  ever  heard  from  his  lips,  Juanita  grows  as  rosy 
as  the  morn  and  does  not  appear  displeased. 

"Is  that  dreadfully  important  work  which  has  occupied 
so  much  of  your  time  this  evening  yet  finished?" 

"Very  nearly." 

"And  you  can  devote  a  little  time  to  your  friends?" 

"I  am  ready  to  devote  the  remainder  of  my  existence 
to  one  of  them,  senorita." 

"Oh,  what  unselfishness!  When  do  you  expect  to 
begin?" 

"Whenever  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  such  devotion 
will  be  rewarded  by " 

"Reward?  Then  it  is  not  a  bit  unselfish  and  does  not 
deserve  encouragement,"  interrupts  the  young  lady,  with 
a  toss  of  her  head, 

"You  are  cruel,  senorita,"  murmurs  Ashley,  but  his 
voice  does  not  betray  a  great  deal  of  grief. 

"I  am  just,"  declares  Juanita.  "While  I  have  been 
sitting  here  at  the  mercy  of  a  lot  of  frightfully  stupid  men, 
you  have  devoted  your  time  to  the  entertainment  of  Mrs. 
Harding.  Perhaps  that  was  the  devotion  you  alluded  to 
a  moment  ago,"  ventures  the  young  lady,  with  a  pretty 
frown. 

"Hardly,"  laughs  Jack.  "You  do  not  know  Mrs.  Hard 
ing,  senorita." 

"Perhaps  not  as  well  as  you,  Senor  Ashley.  My  op 
portunities  have  not  been  so  good.  I  saw  you  come  in 
from  the  garden.  One  would  hardly  judge  that  you  had 
met  her  only  half  an  hour  ago." 

"Oh,  the  fair  Isabel  and  I  are  old  friends,"  Ashley 
remarks,  serenely. 

"Indeed?    Yet  you  told  me " 

"I  will  tell  you  more,  senorita." 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more,"  opposes  Juanita 
crossly.  "You  have  deceived  me  once  and  I " 

"Deceived  thee?  Ah,  Juanita "  Jack  checks  him 
self  as  he  notes  the  flush  of  annoyance  in  her  cheeks. 

"Hello !  There's  the  chap  I've  been  looking  for,"  sud 
denly  remarks  Ashley,  as  he  catches  a  glimpse  of  Capt. 
Guerra  over  by  the  big  staircase.  "Will  you  pardon  me 


274  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

just  a  moment,  senorita?  That  will  complete  my  evening 
work,  and  then  if  a  lifetime  of  devotion  will 

"Stop!  I  shan't  hear  another  word,"  breaks  in  Juanita, 
imperiously.  "And  you  need  not  hurry  back,"  she  adds 
irritably,  provoked  by  Ashley's  serenity. 

Meanwhile  Ashley  is  telling  himself  that  he  must  be 
progressing  in  his  wooing,  since  Juanita  has  betrayed 
symptoms  of  jealousy.  "Devotion?  She  little  knows  how 
much  need  she  has  of  a  clear  head  and  strong  arm,"  lie 
thinks.  "Ah,  Capt.  Guerra,"  he  remarks,  pausing  before 
a  distinguished-appearing  gentleman  who  is  idling  by  the 
staircase,  "will  you  be  good  enough  to  follow  me  into  the 
garden?" 

Ashley  passes  out  and  Guerra  follows  him  curiously. 
When  they  are  alone  and  unobserved  Ashley  takes  an  en 
velope  from  his  pocket  and  presses  it  into  the  captain's 
hand. 

"Read  that  and  then  destroy  it,"  he  directs. 

"Your  meaning,  senor?" 

"No  explanation  is  necessary.  I  am  ignorant  of  the 
contents  of  the  documents  further  than  that  their  publicity 
would  be  deuced  awkward  for  you  and  incidentally  for 
myself." 

"Wonderful!    How  came  you  by  them?" 

"That  is  my  affair,  senor.  Had  I  not  rescued  them 
they  would  now  be  in  the  hands  of  Truenos.  Adios!" 
And  Jack  leaves  the  mystified  Spaniard  to  his  own  de 
vices. 

Meantime  a  little  scene  that  would  afford  Ashley  the 
keenest  delight  to  witness  is  taking  place  in  one  of  the 
rooms  of  the  palace.  Gen.  Truenos  is  seated  at  a  table 
littered  with  maps  and  papers  and  Gen.  Murillo  and  Isabel 
Harding  have  just  been  ushered  into  the  apartment. 

"You  have  succeeded?"  Truenos  asks  as  Mrs.  Harding 
approaches. 

"Beyond  expectation.  Quesada  may  not  be  the  head 
and  front  of  the  offenders,  but  he  is  certainly  one  in 
whom  there  has  been  placed  some  authority." 

"Quesada  is  now  a  fugitive,"  asserts  Truenos. 


THE    SWORD    TRIUMPHANT.  275 

"Indeed?"  This  is  news  to  Isabel.  "Ashley's  warning," 
she  thinks.  "When  did  you  learn  this,  general?" 

''To-day.  He  has  taken  refuge  on  board  the  United 
States  cruiser.  I  have  strongly  suspected  Quesada,  but 
have  not  particularly  feared  him.  Quesada  is  a  figure 
head.  What  I  want  is  proof  of  conspiracy  on  the  part  of 
men  any  one  of  whom  is  more  troublesome  than  a  dozen 
Quesadas — men  I  suspect  to  be  conspiring  against  the 
government  even  while  pretending  to  serve  it/' 

"Would  certain  dispatches  from  Don  Quesada  ad 
dressed  to  Capt.  Francisco  Guerra  furnish  the  necessary 
evidence?"  asks  Mrs.  Harding. 

"Ah!    You  have  intercepted  such?" 

"Better.    I  am  the  bearer  of  them." 

Truenos  regards  his  spy  admiringly.  "Bueno!  The 
papers  at  once!"  he  cries. 

"And  my  reward?"  suggests  Isabel,  as  she  takes  from 
her  bosom  the  precious  envelope. 

"Anything  that  you  may  ask — in  reason,"  replies  the 
captain-general,  reaching  impatiently  for  the  documents. 
"Why,  how  is  this?  This  letter  is  addressed  to  me. 

"To  you?"  exclaims  Isabel  in  astonishment.  "Surely — 
why — there  must  be  some  mistake." 

"Evidently,"  rejoins  Truenos,  as  he  breaks  the  seal. 

Isabel  watches  him  anxiously  as  he  scans  the  document. 
A  pale  sickly  light  is  beginning  to  break  upon  her  be 
wilderment. 

Ashley!  The  papers  have  been  tampered  with!  It  was 
for  that  he  led  her  to  the  garden.  How  did  he  know,  be 
fore  they  spoke,  who  were  the  two  men  whose  meeting 
had  interrupted  their  conversation  in  the  summer  house? 
And,  oh,  how  weak  she  had  been!  She  sees  it  all  now  and 
she  swears  she  will  be  revenged.  Aha!  She  knows  where 
to  wound  him,  to  repay  him  in  awful  torture  for  the  trick 
he  has  played  upon  her. 

While  these  dark  thoughts  are  flitting  through  her 
mind  the  captain-general  has  finished  his  brief  examina 
tion  of  the  letter,  which  he  tosses  over  to  her.  She  picks 
it  up  mechanically  and  reads: 


276  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"To  His  Excellency,  Honorato  de  Truenos:  Indisposition 
prevents  my  attending  the  grand  ball  to-night  and  offering  my 
congratulations  upon  your  safe  arrival  at  Santiago.  Under 
the  directions  of  such  a  general  there  should  be  no  difficulty 
in  quickly  subduing  the  insurrection,  which  I  believe  to  be 
nearly  at  an  end.  Manuel  de  Quesada." 

"I  have  been  tricked,  Gen.  Truenos,"  says  Isabel, 
crushing  the  paper  in  her  hand. 

"It  would  seem  so,"  remarks  the  captain-general.  It  is 
apparent  that  he  is  vastly  disappointed.  "Come,  tell  me 
of  your  stay  at  the  quinta,  all  you  know  concerning  Que 
sada  and  his  movements." 

There  is  much  of  importance  to  relate,  and  when  Mrs. 
Harding  has  finished  her  story  Truenos  summons  Capt. 
Huerta. 

"Take  a  dozen  of  your  men  and  repair  at  once  to  La 
Quinta  de  Quesada.  You  know  where  it  is?"  Capt. 
Huerta  knows  perfectly.  "Ransack  the  house  thorough 
ly  and  fetch  me  every  scrap  of  writing  upon  the  prem 
ises.  Gen.  Murillo,  do  you  follow  in  the  morning  and 
look  over  the  place.  Go!''  to  Huerta. 

The  latter  bows  and  leaves  the  room.  Mrs.  Harding 
follows.  "One  moment,  Captain  Huerta,"  she  says. 

A  short  but  earnest  conversation  ensues.  Isabel  talks 
in  rapid  whispers,  and  the  Spanish  captain  listens  eagerly, 
while  surprise,  anger,  hope  and  malicious  joy  are  mir 
rored  in  succession  upon  his  swarthy  countenance. 

"Within  ten  minutes,"  he  breathes,  and  hurries  away 
to  execute  the  commands  of  the  captain-general. 

"I  told  you  it  would  be  better  if  you  delivered  the 
papers  to  me  during  the  afternoon,"  General  Murillo 
tells  Mrs.  Harding,  after  Truenos  has  gone.  "Who  has 
been  the  cause  of  your  undoing?" 

Isabel  tells  him  of  her  suspicions,  which  she  has  come 
to  regard  as  virtual  facts,  and  Murillo  is  inclined  to 
agree  with  her. 

"The  game  is  not  yet  played  out,  general,"  flashes 
Isabel. 

"Well,  take  care,  take  care,"  admonishes  Murillo,  as 
they  separate. 

"Ah,  here  is  the  very  man  now,"  frowns  the  general, 


THE    SWORD   TRIUMPHANT.  2?7 

as  he  re-enters  the  sala  grande  and  is  greeted  by  Ashley, 
who  has  just  left  Captain  Guerra. 

"•My  dear  Senor  Ashley,"  he  observes  dryly,  "let  me 
give  you  a  piece  of  advice." 

"With  pleasure,  general.  I  am  always  open  to  kindly 
counsel,  although  I  do  not  always  follow  it." 

"Do  not  let  your  interest  in  a  young  lady  lead  you 
into  mixing  with  the  affairs  of  a  country  toward  which 
you  are  expected  to  maintain  a  strict  neutrality,"  is  Muril- 
lo's  blunt  remark. 

"I  don't  think  I  catch  your  drift,  general/'  drawls 
Jack.  But  he  does,  and  the  gleam  of  quiet  triumph  in  his 
blue  eyes  irritates  Murillo. 

"I  have  warned  you,"  says  the  latter,  and  turns  on  his 
heel. 

"So  I  am  suspected,"  thinks  Ashley.  "I  imagined  the 
fair  Isabel  would  like  to  know  to  whom  to  ascribe  her 
confusion.  And  now  to  undeceive  Juanita." 

But  Juanita  is  not  to  be  found.  There  are  few  guests 
remaining  in  the  sala  and  she  is  not  among  them. 

Ashley  explores  the  garden,  with  like  success.  Then 
he  questions  the  line  of  volante  drivers  drawn  up  before 
the  entrance  to  the  palace  grounds.  Have  any  of  them 
seen  Senorita  de  Quesada?  None  that  he  interrogates 
have  had  that  pleasure,  and  the  Pearl  of  the  Antilles  is 
known  by  sight  to  nearly  all  of  them.  Ashley  is  in 
despair. 

"The  Senorita  de  Quesada?"  queries  one  of  the  Cuban 
jehus,  who  has  just  joined  the  group.  "The  senorita  and 
another  lady  were  driven  away  in  a  volante  not  ten  min 
utes  ago." 

"In  what  direction?"  demands  Ashley. 

"To  Santos." 

"To  Santos?  Heavens,  man,  they  cannot  go  to  Santos 
at  this  hour  of  night  unescorted!" 

Unescorted?  Is  not  Captain  Huerta  and  his  men  all 
the  escort  that  one  could  desire? 

This  intelligence  is  a  frightful  strain  upon  Ashley's 
composure,  as  he  thinks  of  Juanita,  Isabel,  Captain 
Huerta  and  the  deserted  La  Quinta  de  Quesada. 


278  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Quick !  To  Santos !"  he  cries,  springing  into  a  volante 
and  tossing  a  handful  of  coin  to  the  driver.  "To  Santos 
as  fast  as  your  horse  will  travel!" 

The  man  leaps  to  his  seat,  cracks  his  whip  and  they 
are  off. 

As  they  clatter  through  the  streets  of  Santiago  and 
swing  into  the  road  which  Ashley  traversed  only  a  few 
hours  before,  Jack  shouts  impatiently,  "Faster!  Faster! 
Great  Scott!  This  is  no  funeral!  Though  it  may  be, 
before  I'm  through  with  it,"  he  adds,  savagely. 

"But  senor,  we  will  dash  the  volante  to  pieces/'  pro 
tests  his  charioteer. 

Inwardly  chafing,  but  realizing  the  futility  of  impa 
tience,  Ashley  forces  himself  to  be  calm.  It  seems  an  age 
before  the  distance  to  Santos  is  traversed,  but  finally  the 
outlines  of  the  few  buildings  which  the  hamlet  boasts  are 
seen  against  the  starlit  sky. 

The  driver  reins  up  his  steed  for  further  directions. 

"To  La  Quinta  de  Quesada,"  orders  Ashley,  and  they 
rattle  on. 

Suddenly  rings  out  the  command,  "Alto!"  and  the 
volante  stops  with  a  suddenness  that  nearly  unseats  its 
passenger,  directly  ir\  front  of  El  Calabozo  de  Infierno, 
the  local  carcel. 

"What  in  the  devil's  name "  begins  Ashley,  but  he 

is  seized  and  dragged  roughly  from  the  volante,  a  pistol 
clapped  to  his  head  and  the  command  hissed  in  his  ear: 
"Callese!" 

Lights  appear  about  the  entrance  of  the  carcel,  and  as 
Ashley  is  hustled  toward  the  gloom  beyond  he  sees, 
standing  near  the  passageway  and  watching  the  strange 
proceedings  with  a  troubled  face,  the  aged  priest  whom 
he  noted  at  La  Quinta  de  Quesada  a  few  days  before. 

Ashley  is  hurried  through  the  patio  and  along  the  ill- 
smelling  corridor  beyond  to  an  open  cell.  Into  this  lie 
is  pushed  and  his  ungentle  captor  tells  him: 

"En  la  manana  muere  V.  sobre  el  garote!" 

"Thank  you,"  says  Ashley.  His  stock  of  Spanish  is 
just  sufficient  to  enable  him  to  comprehend  the  nature 


EL    CALABOZO    DE    INFIERNO.  279 

of  the  cheerful  intelligence,  which  is  to  the  effect  that  he 
is  to  die  by  the  iron  collar  to-morrow. 

"Will  you  leave  the  light?"  he  requests. 

The  smoky  lantern  is  set  upon  the  floor.  Then  the 
door  clangs  to,  there  is  a  rattle  of  chains  and  the  echo 
of  departing  footsteps  and  he  is  alone. 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

EL  CALABOZO  DE  INFIERNO. 

An  ordinary  man,  suddenly  placed  in  the  position  in 
which  Jack  Ashley  finds  himself,  would  perhaps  exhaust 
his  strength  in  useless  imprecations  upon  his  oppressors, 
and  finish  by  sinking  into  utter  hopelessness  as  to  his 
fate. 

But,  as  was  intimated  when  the  reader  first  made  his 
acquaintance,  Jack  Ashley  is  not  an  ordinary  man.  The 
practice  of  self-restraint  has  enabled  him  to  retain  to  a 
remarkable  degree  his  self-possession  at  more  than  one 
exciting  moment,  and  his  sublime  confidence  in  himself 
is  never  wanting. 

Clearly  his  arrest  has  been  arbitrary  and  unofficial. 
He  has  not  even  been  searched.  His  watch  and  money, 
his  papers,  even  his  revolver,  are  upon  his  person. 

"And  best  of  all,  they  have  not  deprived  me  of  this 
incomparable  solace,"  he  says,  as  he  draws  a  cigar  from 
his  pocket  and  lights  it  at  the  smoky  little  lantern  in  the 
cell.  Then  he  throws  himself  on  the  wretched  straw 
couch,  to  think  of  some  way  out  of  the  snare  into  which 
he  has  stumbled. 

Isabel  Harding  has  undoubtedly  imparted  to  Truenos 
all  she  knows,  all  she  suspects.  But  suspicion  is  not 
proof.  And  the  strongest  suspicion  would  not  have  war 
ranted,  much  less  likely  have  caused,  such  an  outrage 
upon  a  citizen  of  the  United  States, 


280  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

Plainly  there  is  some  private  villainy  back  of  it  all. 
Then  a  light  flashes  through  his  brain. 

Juanita!  In  his  selfish  though  natural  consideration 
of  his  own  unpleasant  position  he  has  forgotten  for  the 
nonce  the  Pearl  of  the  Antilles,  the  one  woman  who  has 
ever  stirred  his  light  heart  to  a  love  that,  once  given, 
means  all  of  life  to  him. 

He  sees  it  all  now.  Don  Quesada  gone,  his  daughter 
unprotected,  worse  than  unprotected  as  the  companion 
of  Isabel  Harding,  and  at  the  mercy  of  Captain  Raymon 
Huerta,  who  has  haunted  her  for  weeks  and  forced  his 
unwelcome  attentions  upon  her!  The  only  man  who 
could  lend  a  defending  arm  locked  fast  in  a  Cuban  jail, 
with  the  prospect  of  being  garroted  before  another  sun 
goes  down! 

It  is  infamous!  Ashley  leaps  to  his  feet  and  paces  the 
cell  like  a  raging  lion,  and  shakes  the  iron  door  with 
impotent  energy. 

"Pshaw!"  he  cries,  and  laughs  recklessly.  "What  is 
the  use  in  wasting  my  strength  and  nerves  in  this  man 
ner?  Courage,  Jack.  If  the  senorita  is  to  be  saved, 
and  yourself  incidentally,  you  will  need  all  of  your 
strength  and  nerve.  Let's  take  an  account  of  stock." 
And  he  falls  to  meditating  again. 

How  come  Captain  Huerta  and  his  men  to  be  at  Santos 
at  this  hour  of  the  night?  Sent  by  Truenos,  who  perhaps 
has  ordered  Don  Quesada's  arrest,  or,  if  he  knows  of 
the  latter's  flight,  has  ordered  the  quinta  to  be  searched. 
How  came  Juanita  to  leave  for  home  without  bidding 
him  adios?  She  could  not  have  been  so  piqued  by  jeal 
ousy  or  by  his  good-natured  banter  that  she  would  have 
left  the  palace  without  even  a  cold  farewell.  Isabel's 
work,  without  a  doubt.  Why  has  he  been  set  upon  by  a 
horde  of  ruffians  and  thrust  into  a  cell?  Because  his 
presence  at  Santos  would  interfere  with  some  devilish 
plans  afoot.  Again  Isabel's  work,  assisted  by  Captain 
Huerta. 

But  what  vile  plot  is  maturing  outside  the  walls  of 
El  Calabozo  de  Infierno  while  he  lies  helpless  here?  As 


EL   CALABOZO   DE    INFIERNO.  281 

he  thinks  of  Juanita  he  grits  his  teeth  in  suppressed  fury 
and  chews  his  cigar  to  a  pulp. 

As  for  his  captor's  gratuitous  information,  that  he  is 
to  be  executed  in  the  morning,  nonsense!  That  is  what 
an  American  would  term  a  cold  bluff.  They  would  not 
dare  to  proceed  to  such  an  extremity.  They  have  gone 
to  dangerous  lengths  already. 

At  this  moment  his  meditations  are  broken  in  upon  by 
a  key  being  inserted  in  the  cell  door.  The  door  swings 
open  and  closes  behind  Father  Hilario,  the  venerable 
padre  of  the  little  church  of  San  Pedro.  At  sight  of  the 
priest,  Ashley's  composure  returns. 

"Good-morning,  father,"  is  his  salutation.  "I  noticed 
you  at  the  entrance  to  my  lodgings  for  the  night,  and  I 
should  have  spoken,  but  my  friends  rather  insisted  on 
my  maintaining  a  strict  silence.  I  believe  'callese'  means 
keep  your  mouth  shut,  or  something  of  that  sort,  does 
it  not?" 

"I  have  but  a  short  time  to  remain,"  says  Father  Hila 
rio,  surveying  with  some  wonder  the  composed  face  of 
the  young  man  before  him. 

"Well,  whatever  your  errand  may  be,  I  am  indebted 
to  you  for  this  visit,"  remarks  Jack.  "It's  confoundedly 
lonesome  here.  I  will  not  apologize  for  my  apartment, 
as  it  is  not  of  my  own  selection.  Now,  what  can  I  do  for 
you,  father,  or  what  can  you  do  for  me?" 

"My  son,  you  are  not  of  the  faith  of  Rome,  but  I  have 
called  to  offer  you  the  consolation  which  a  clergyman 
can  extend  in  your  last  hours." 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  that?  Really,  I  don't  take  any  stock 
in  this  garroting  business.  I  believe  that  is  thrown  in  for 
theatrical  effect." 

Father  Hilario  shakes  his  head.  "Captain  Huerta 
is  a  desperate  man,"  he  avows.  "There  is  nothing  to 
prevent  his  wreaking  his  enmity  upon  you." 

"Oh,  is  there  not?  Thank  you,  father,  for  the  offer  of 
your  ministrations,  but  really,  I  do  not  believe  I  shall 
need  them.  Do  not  misunderstand  me,"  Ashley  adds, 
quickly,  as  a  pained  expression  passes  over  the  kindly 
face  of  the  priest.  "What  I  mean  is  that  I  have  too 


282  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

healthy  an  interest  in  life,  liberty  and  the  pursuit  of  hap 
piness  to  pass  many  hours  in  such  a  stuffy,  ill-smelling 
donjon  as  this.'' 

Father  Hilario  holds  up  a  warning  finger.  'There  are 
listeners  about,"  he  says. 

"Let  them  listen.  If  their  stock  of  English  is  equal 
to  my  collection  of  Spanish  they  will  be  vastly  entertained 
by  my  remarks." 

"You  will  attempt  to  escape?"  queries  the  priest,  in  a 
cautious  whisper. 

"At  the  first  opportunity." 

"The  attempt  will  fail." 

"It  will  succeed,"  retorts  Ashley. 

"No;  it  will  fail,"  repeats  Father  Hilario.  "The  carce- 
lero,  always  watchful,  will  be  doubly  vigilant  to-night. 
He  has  probably  been  bribed." 

"But  a  larger  bribe '' 

"Is  out  of  the  question.  His  life  would  pay  the 
penalty." 

"I  don't  believe  it.  But  enough  of  that,"  says  Ashley, 
impatiently.  "Now  tell  me,  father,  of  the  Senorita  de 
Quesada.  Have  you  seen  her  to-night?" 

The  priest  is  silent.  In  his  muteness,  Ashley  finds  the 
confirmation  of  his  worst  fears. 

"Speak,  man!"  he  cries  impatiently.  "Do  you  know 
that  the  life  and  happiness  of  the  senorita  are  more  to  me 
than  my  own  existence?  Speak!" 

"She  is  in  the  church  of  San  Pedro." 

"In  whose  company?" 

"She  is  alone." 

"Alone  in  the  church  of  San  Pedro  after  midnight? 
What  mean  you?" 

"She  is  a  prisoner. 

"A  prisoner?  Ten  thousand  devils!"  rages  Ashley, 
striding  to  and  fro  in  his  narrow  cell. 

"Calm  yourself,  my  son,"  remonstrates  Father  Hilario. 
"Nothing  can  be  accomplished  by  such  wild  outbursts." 

"Oh,  yes;  I'll  be  calm!"  grits  Ashley.  "By  heaven,  I'd 
give  ten  years  of  my  life  for  ten  minutes  of  liberty!" 

"Come.     Time  flies,  and  the  carcelero  will  soon  be 


EL    CALABOZO    DE    INFIERNO.  283 

here,"  admonishes  Father  Hilario.  "Is  there  aught  I 
can  do  for  thee,  my  son?" 

Ashley  forces  a  tranquillity  of  mind  that  he  little  feels. 
"How  came  you  to  learn  of  the  senorita's  imprisonment?" 
he  asks. 

"I  was  returning  from  a  midnight  summons  to  a  death 
bed  and  had  nearly  reached  my  house  when  Captain 
Huerta  and  his  men  entered  the  town,  escorting  a  vo- 
lante.  Suddenly  the  party  were  attacked  in  the  dark 
ness.'' 

"By  Huerta's  own  men?" 

"That  was  doubtless  part  of  the  plot.  The  two  women 
in  the  volante  were  separated.  The  senorita  was  borne 
fainting  into  the  church  and  then  quietness  reigned  again. 
I  lingered  about  the  scene,  and  was  a  witness  of  your 
arrest  not  many  minutes  afterward.  I  begged  permission 
to  see  you,  and  the  carcelero,  in  granting  it,  bade  me 
roughly  to  tell  you  that  you  die  on  the  morrow." 

"A  merry  knave,"  remarks  Ashley.  "Well,  father,  you 
can  be  of  great  service  to  me.  Will  you  not  bear  a  mes 
sage  from  me  to  General  Truenos?  Or,  no;  hang  Tru- 
enos.  To  General  Murillo,  then.  You  know  him.  My 
detention  here  is  without  his  knowledge,  of  that  I  am 
assured.  It  is  a  vile  outrage  that  he  would  not  brook." 

The  priest  shakes  his  head.  "It  would  be  useless,"  he 
says.  "From  the  instant  I  leave  this  place  I  shall  be 
watched,  shadowed  every  step  of  the  way  to  my  house. 
An  attempt  to  leave  Santos  would  be  at  once  frustrated." 

"You  believe  so?" 

"I  am  positive  of  it." 

"But  the  senorita.    Can  you  communicate  with  her." 

"Ay;  and  without  the  knowledge  of  Captain  Huerta." 

"You  can?"  cries  Ashley,  eagerly.  "But  you  said  you 
would  be  watched." 

"Ah,"  says  the  priest,  with  a  faint  smile,  "there  is  an 
entrance  to  the  church  that  Captain  Huerta  knows  not 
of — an  entrance  from  my  house  through  the  little  garden 
intervening." 

"Good.  Excellently  good,"  remarks  Ashley,  into 
whose  active  brain  has  flashed  an  inspiration.  "Father 


284  tINDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

Hilario,  I  have  a  plan.  You  must  join  the  senorita  and 
myself  in  marriage." 

"Marry  you?  Impossible!"  exclaims  the  astonished 
padre.  Have  the  American's  troubles  driven  him  insane? 

"Impossible  nothing.  Easiest  thing  in  the  world  if  the 
lady  is  willing/'  is  Ashley's  cheerful  response.  "Now, 
listen  to  me,  father.  Don  Quesada  is  a  fugitive,  and  his 
daughter,  being  a  Cuban,  is  amenable  to  the  laws  of  this 
country.  From  the  Spanish  government  she  would  not 
likely  receive  much  earnest  protection  or  reparation  for 
any  wrongs  she  might  suffer.  But  when  she  becomes 
Mrs.  Jack  Ashley,"  says  Jack,  dramatically,  working  up 
to  a  mild  enthusiasm,  "she  is  then  an  American  citizen 
and  as  such  she  will  be  under  the  protection  of  a  flag 
that  the  Spaniard  dare  not  affront  with  impunity.  You 
get  the  idea,  eh?" 

"Impossible,  impossible,  I  tell  you,"  repeats  Father 
Hilario.  "You  are  not  a  Catholic,  Senor  Ashley;  the 
senorita  is.  Besides,  the  consent  of  her  father " 

"This  is  no  time  for  quibbling  over  technicalities. 
Would  you  see  a  woman,  your  friend's  daughter,  insulted, 
perhaps  murdered,  when  a  few  words  from  your  lips 
would  save  her?" 

"I  would  do  my  duty,"  replies  the  priest,  calmly.  "The 
idea  is  madness.  I  cannot  bring  the  senorita  here,  and 
you  cannot  reach  the  church." 

"Oh,  I'll  be  there  in  season,"  is  the  cool  response. 
"Just  leave  the  way  from  your  house  to  the  church  open 
to  me." 

"If  you  have  any  message  to  send  the  senorita,  you 
must  make  haste,  adjures  the  priest.  "The  carcelero  is 
approaching." 

"It  will  be  brief,"  replies  Ashley.  Then  hurriedly: 
"Go  to  her  at  once.  Comfort  her.  Pray  with  her.  And 
tell  her  that  I  will  be  with  her  before  the  sun  rises.  Say 
nothing  about  the  marriage.  I  prefer  to  do  my  own  pro 
posing.  But,  above  all,  remain  with  her  until  I  come." 

Then,  in  a  different  tone,  as  the  cell  door  is  swung 
open  by  the  carcelero:  "Many  thanks,  dear  father,  for 
your  kindly  visit  and  spiritual  solace.  I  have  made  my 


AT    BAY    IN    THE   CHURCH    OF   SAN    PEDRO.      285 

peace  with  heaven,  and  to-morrow  I  will  show  these 
Spanish  gentry  how  an  American  can  die — when  he  gets 
ready,"  he  adds,  under  his  breath,  as  the  iron  door  clangs 
to  and  he  is  once  more  alone. 


CHAPTER  L. 

AT  BAY  IN  THE  CHURCH  OF  SAN  PEDRO. 

As  the  echo  of  Father  Hilario's  footsteps  dies  away 
adown  the  gloomy  corridor  Ashley  glances  at  his  watch. 
It  lacks  a  quarter  of  two  o'clock. 

"The  trick  must  be  done  within  two  hours,  or  all  is 
lost,"  he  mutters.  Then  he  extinguishes  the  light  and 
throws  himself  down  upon  the  pallet  of  straw. 

Ten,  fifteen  minutes  pass.  The  tread  of  the  carcelero 
on  his  rounds  sounds  from  the  corridor  and  a  light  is 
flashed  into  the  cell.  A  counterfeit  snore  from  Ashley 
greets  him  and  he  passes  on  with  a  muttered  "Dios!  He 
sleeps  as  if  to-morrow  were  his  wedding  day."  In  five 
minutes,  his  round  of  inspection  completed,  he  repasses 
the  cell  door  and  continues  on,  until  silence  again  en 
shrouds  the  prison. 

Then  Ashley  arises,  takes  out  his  jack-knife  and  opens 
one  of  the  blades,  a  finely  tempered  steel  saw. 

"Thank  heaven  for  that  much  Yankee  inventiveness!'' 
he  murmurs,  as  he  sinks  on  one  knee  beside  the  iron  door 
of  his  cell  and  applies  the  saw  blade  to  the  lower  end  of 
one  of  the  rusty  bars. 

As  the  steel  slowly  but  surely  eats  its  way  into  the  cor 
roded  iron  and  finally  slips  entirely  through,  Ashley  again, 
aided  by  a  match,  consults  his  watch.  It  is  nearly  three 
o'clock.  Scarcely  had  he  extinguished  the  lucifer  than 
the  approach  of  the  carcelero  is  heard,  and  he  retreats  to 
his  pallet,  to  again  feign  an  audible  slumber. 

All  still  once  more,  and  he  attacks  the  upper  end  of 
the  bar.  When  almost  severed  he  seizes  it  with  both 


286  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

hands  and  exerts  all  his  strength.  The  iron  snaps,  and  as 
Ashley  falls  back  the  bar  slips  from  his  hands  and  drops 
to  the  floor  of  the  cell  with  a  loud  clang. 

Jack  inwardly  curses  his  carelessness.  Such  a  tremen 
dous  noise  would  alarm  the  sleepiest  of  guards.  He  must 
act,  and  act  quickly. 

To  squeeze  through  the  space  made  in  the  door  is  the 
work  of  some  moments,  and  it  is  not  accomplished  an 
instant  too  soon.  A  light  approaches. 

Ashley  remembers  that  opposite  his  cell  is  another,  the 
door  to  which  is  ajar.  With  the  iron  bar  in  his  hand  he 
gropes  his  way  across  the  corridor  and  into  the  open 
cell.  A  moment  later  the  carcelero,  lantern  in  hand, 
stands  before  the  now  tenantless  pen,  and  stares  stupidly 
at  the  wreck  of  the  iron  door. 

Before  he  can  utter  an  outcry  the  bar  in  Ashley's  hand 
descends  upon  his  head  with  crushing  force  and  he  drops 
like  a  log. 

"I  hope  I  didn't  kill  the  poor  devil,"  thinks  Jack.  He 
drags  the  unconscious  man  into  the  open  cell,  and,  tear 
ing  and  tying  his  handkerchief  into  a  gag,  he  makes 
assured  the  silence  of  the  carcelero.  Then  he  extin 
guishes  the  lantern  and  is  soon  standing  at  the  entrance 
of  the  prison. 

To  his  left  is  life  and  liberty.  To  his  right — ah,  some 
thing  dearer  than  life — Juanita  de  Quesada,  locked  in  the 
little  church  of  San  Pedro,  the  outlines  of  which  stand 
boldly  against  the  star-gemmed  heaven. 

Within  that  little  sanctuary  the  altar  lamp  sheds  a  soft 
light  over  a  strange  picture.  Juanita  is  lying  upon  the 
steps  of  the  altar,  her  head  buried  in  her  arms,  and  near 
by  stands  Father  Hilario,  his  arms  folded,  gazing  com 
passionately  upon  her. 

"Why  does  he  not  come?''  moans  the  girl,  lifting  her 
head  and  looking  at  the  priest  with  tear-stained  eyes 
from  which  hope  has  not  yet  fled. 

Father  Hilario  is  silent.  The  American  does  not  come 
because,  forsooth,  he  cannot  leave  his  prison.  But  why 
undeceive  the  girl?  Let  her  hope  on  to  the  end. 

The  opening  of  a  door  behind  them  causes  both  to  start. 


AT    BAY    IN    THE    CHURCH    OF    SAN    PEDRO.      287 

Jack  Ashley  stands  upon  the  threshold,  a  smile  upon  his 
face. 

With  a  glad  cry  Juanita  runs  to  him  and  takes  both 
his  hands.  "I  was  expecting  you/'  she  says,  simply. 

"Thank  you.  And  you?"  asks  Ashley,  turning  to 
Father  Hilario. 

"I  bore  your  message.  I  did  not  expect  you,"  replies 
the  priest,  regarding  the  young  man  with  mingled  wonder 
and  admiration. 

"Then  you  must  have  a  more  flattering  opinion  of  the 
security  of  Cuban  jails  than  I.  And  now,  senorita,  tell 
me  how  you  come  to  be  in  this  unhappy  position." 

The  story  is  brief,  but  interesting. 

"Five  minutes  after  you  left  me  in  the  ball-room  at  the 
palace,"  narrates  Juanita,  "Isabel  came  to  me  and  declared 
that  we  should  leave  for  Santos.  She  explained  that  Cap 
tain  Huerta  and  his  men  were  going  to  Santos  at  once, 
and  would  escort  us,  and  that  the  ride  would  be  enjoyable 
after  the  heat  and  excitement  of  the  ball.  At  the  mention 
of  Captain  Huerta  I  know  I  looked  displeased,  and  Isabel 
remarked  disagreeably:  'Perhaps  you  would  prefer  the 
escort  of  Mr.  Ashley.'  I  replied  that  I  should  certainly 
prefer  it  to  that  of  Captain  Huerta,  and  she  declared  that 
you  would  not  be  likely  to  offer  it,  as " 

"As  what?"  asks  Ashley,  as  Juanita  pauses  in  confu 
sion. 

"She  gave  me  to  understand  that  you  had  proposed  to 
her  that  night  and  that  she  had  refused  you." 

"And  you  believed  her?" 

"I  don't  know  what  I  believed.  But  I  agreed  to  Isa 
bel's  proposition  and  we  left  for  Santos  at  once.  On 
our  arrival  there  we  were  set  upon  by  a  party  of  men. 
All  I  remember  is  being  lifted  from  the  volante  by  Cap 
tain  Huerta.  Then  I  fainted,  and  when  I  recovered  con 
sciousness  I  was  in  the  church,  alone  with  Captain  Huer 
ta.  He  told  me  that  he  loved  me.  I  replied  that  I  hated 
him,  and  when  he  attempted  to  put  his  arm  around  me 
I  struck  him  in  the  face.  Then  he  swore  frightfully  and 

told  me  I  would  regret  the  blow.  'My  father '  I 

began.  'Your  father  is  a  fugitive,'  he  sneered.  'You  are 


288  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

wholly  in  my  power.'  'Then  I  will  kill  myself/  I  cried. 
'Oh,  no;  you  will  come  to  your  senses  in  a  few  hours,' 
he  said,  tauntingly.  'I  shall  expect  to  find  you  in  a  better 
humor  when  I  return.'  Then  he  went  away,  locking  the 
church  door  behind  him. 

"When  he  had  gone  I  piled  all  the  furniture  of  the 
church  against  the  door  and  then  threw  myself  down 
before  the  altar  and  prayed.  The  opening  of  a  door 
aroused  me.  I  lifted  my  head,  expecting  to  see  again 
the  hated  face  of  Captain  Huerta.  Instead,  to  my  great 
joy,  I  beheld  Father  Hilario.  When  he  told  me  of  your 
arrest  I  cried  out  in  terror.  Then  he  gave  me  your  mes 
sage  and  hope  came  to  me." 

"And  Satan  came  also,"  quotes  Ashley.  "I  fear  your 
barricade  would  not  withstand  a  very  earnest  assault," 
surveying  the  rude  defense  critically. 

"It  was  all  I  could  do.  But  tell  me  of  yourself,"  urges 
Juanita.  "What  is  the  meaning  of  your  violent  arrest?" 

As  Ashley  unfolds  the  black  plot,  beginning  with  the 
first  appearance  of  the  adventuress  at  La  Quinta  de  Que- 
sada,  the  Cuban  girl  grows  very  pale,  and  she  realizes 
how  much  she  owes  to  the  blue-eyed  young  man  who 
finishes  his  story  with  the  smiling  quotation:  "And  now, 
senorita,  if  a  lifetime  of  devotion " 

"There,  do  not  remind  me  of  my  folly,"  she  protests, 
choking  back  a  sob.  "I  will  never  doubt  you  again." 

Thus  encouraged,  Ashley  takes  both  of  Juanita's  hands 
and  whispers  very  tenderly: 

"In  this  darkest  hour  before  the  dawn  I  have  found 
the  courage  to  tell  you  what  has  been  in  my  heart  for — 
for  nearly  three  weeks,"  he  finishes  with  a  smile.  Even 
amid  the  dangers  that  surround  them,  the  humor  of  his 
declaration  impresses  him. 

A  wave  of  crimson  spreads  over  the  girl's  face,  and  in 
the  big  black  eyes  Ashley  sees  the  light  of  a  great  love. 

The  young  people's  eyes  meet  in  mutual  understanding. 
He  draws  her  to  him,  and  the  first  kiss  of  love  is  ex 
changed.  It  must  be  followed  by  many  others,  for  Father 
Hilario,  after  waiting  what  he  considers  a  reasonable 


AT   BAY   IN   THE   CHURCH    OF    SAN   PEDRO.      289 

length  of  time,  turns  to  the  pair  with  an  uneasy:    "Well, 
what  is  all  this  leading  up  to?'' 

"A  marriage,  I  should  say,"  replies  Jack,  cheerfully. 
"That  is  usually  the  logical  outcome  of  such  a  situation/' 
Father  Hilario  bites  his  lips  impatiently. 

"The  church  and  the  pastor  are  here,  and  I  think  the 
bride  is  willing,"  continues  Jack.  The  young  girl  gives 
the  priest  an  anxious  look. 

"It  is  useless  to  argue  that  matter  further,"  is  the  firm 
reply.  "My  duty  to  the  church  forbids/'  The  priest's 
face  convinces  Ashley  that  the  debate  on  the  matrimonial 
question  is  closed. 

"Then  we  must  seek  elsewhere  for  a  clergyman,"  he 
remarks,  coolly.  "Come,  Juanita."  And  he  leads  her 
toward  the  little  door  by  which  he  entered  the  church. 

"This  is  madness!"  cries  the  priest,  barring  the  way. 
"The  town  is  overrun  with  your  enemies.  It  is  nearly 
day  and  the  place  is  already  astir.  Hark!  Do  you  not 
hear  the  tread  of  feet  in  the  street?" 

"Spanish  or  no  Spanish,  I  don't  propose  to  remain  here 
and  be  trapped  like  a  rat,"  declares  Ashley.  "We  can 
at  least  make  a  break  for  liberty.  I  do  not " 

The  sound  of  a  key  being  tried  in  the  church  door 
cuts  short  his  words. 

"It  is  Captain  Huerta,"  whispers  Juanita,  and  she  trem 
bles  like  a  leaf  in  Jack's  arms. 

"Quick,  father!"  commands  the  latter.  "You  recon- 
noiter  and  see  if  the  way  through  the  garden  and  your 
house  is  clear."  The  venerable  padre  hurries  away  and 
Ashley  improves  the  opportunity  to  shower  kisses  upon 
Juanita's  cold  and  unresponsive  lips. 

"What  a  man  you  are!"  she  murmurs.  "I  believe  you 
would  make  love  on  your  way  to  execution." 

"I  should  if  the  opportunity  was  offered,"  laughs  Jack, 
softly.  "What  could  more  brightly  illumine  the  last 
moments  of  a  condemned  man  than  to  hold  in  his  arms, 
if  but  for  a  few  minutes,  so  much  loveliness?" 

At  that  moment  Father  Hilario  reappears.  "There  is 
no  hope,"  he  reports.  "Suspecting  all  was  not  right, 


290  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

Captain  Huerta  has  surrounded  the  church  and  grounds 
with  his  men." 

"Then  fasten  that  door,"  says  Jack.  "An  attack  at 
one  end  is  all  I  care  to  look  after." 

The  bolt  is  shot  into  place,  and  with  the  click  comes 
the  sound  of  muttered  oaths  from  without,  followed  by  a 
savage  kick  at  the  barricaded  portal. 

"Ho,  there,  within!''  demands  an  impatient  voice. 

At  the  sound  of  the  hateful  tones  Juanita  shudders  and 
throws  her  arms  about  Ashley's  neck.  "Save  me  from 
that  man!'  she  whispers. 

For  answer  Jack  takes  another  reef  in  his  confidence- 
restoring  arm,  and  draws  his  revolver. 

"Don't  move,  dear,"  he  murmurs,  solicitously.  He 
rather  enjoys  the  tight  embrace  of  those  soft  arms,  to 
which  terror  has  lent  a  delightful  fervency.  "You  need 
not  fear  Captain  Huerta  so  long  as  there  is  light  enough 
to  shoot  by." 

It  is  a  strange  tableau  that  the  altar  lamp  dimly  shows. 
The  three  figures  stand  immovable,  as  if  carved  in  stone. 
Ashley  is  calm,  resolute,  and  his  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the 
barricaded  door.  The  resignation  of  despair  is  depicted 
in  the  beautiful  face  of  the  Cuban  girl;  her  eyes  seek 
those  of  her  lover,  her  head  upon  his  breast.  They  will 
at  least  die  together.  Near  by  stands  the  aged  priest, 
his  arms  folded,  his  eyes  turned  heavenward  and  his  lips 
moving  as  if  in  prayer.  The  tread  of  soldiery  and  the 
rattle  of  steel  sound  from  the  street. 

The  stillness  within  the  church  is  broken  only  by  a 
sharp  click  as  Ashley's  revolver  is  brought  to  half-cock. 

The  seconds  drag  by.  Every  one  of  them  seems  an 
hour. 

Then  there  is  the  sound  of  a  rush  of  feet  without,  fol 
lowed  by  a  loud  crash,  as  the  church  door  is  hurled  from 
its  fastenings  and  piled  upon  the  debris  of  the  barricade. 

The  gap  thus  made  throngs  with  Spanish  soldiery,  at 
their  head,  sword  in  hand,  Captain  Raymon  Huerta.  At 
sight  of  the  picture  within  the  church  he  starts  back  with 
a  cry  of  surprise  and  a  choice  assortment  of  Castilian 
imprecations. 


UNDER  THE  RED,  WHITE  AND  BLUE.  291 

"You  here,  dog  of  an  Americano?  Who  opened  to 
thee  the  doors  of  the  carcel?"  And  the  Spanish  captain 
glowers  around  upon  his  followers. 

"I  am  indebted  to  no  one  except  myself  for  my  escape 
from  your  infernal  den,"  replies  Ashley;  and  he  adds, 
sternly: 

"Hark  ye,  Captain  Raymon  Huerta.  I  am  here  to 
protect  this  young  woman  from  your  deviltry,  to  protect 
her  with  my  life.  I  warn  you  that  any  violence  to  her 
will  cost  you  yours." 

"Your  life  is  already  forfeited,"  sneers  Huerta.  Then 
to  his  followers: 

"Ho,  there,  men!  Seize  the  Americano  and  leave  the 
girl  to  me!" 

Ashley's  arm  comes  up. 

"Halt!"  he  thunders.  "This  woman  is  my  wife  and  as 
such  she  is  an  American  citizen.  Another  step,  and,  by 
the  stars  and  stripes,  I'll  send  your  leader  to  perdition!" 

The  streak  of  dawn  that  struggles  in  through  the  little 
window  above  the  altar  glints  upon  the  polished  barrel 
of  a  revolver  pointed  straight  at  the  heart  of  Captain 
Raymon  Huerta. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

UNDER  THE  RED,  WHITE  AND  BLUE. 

"You  lie!"  shouts  Captain  Raymon  Huerta,  white  with 
rage. 

Ashley  retorts  calmly.  "I  repeat,  Captain  Huerta,  what 
I  have  asserted.  As  my  wife,  this  woman  is  an  American 
citizen.  An  order  from  you  to  your  men  to  fire  upon  or 
seize  us,  will  be  the  last  words  you  will  utter  in  this 
world!" 

"The  marriage?  Impossible!  The  proof?  The  proof ?" 
cries  Huerta,  foaming  with  passion. 

Ashley  points  to  Father  Hilario.    "The  proof  is  the 


292  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

word  of  yonder  man  of  God,  by  whom  we  were  wedded 
not  an  hour  ago!" 

Captain  Huerta  glowers  upon  the  priest.  "Speaks  the 
Americano  truly?"  he  fumes. 

Father  Hilario  is  silent.  His  eyes  wander  from  the 
lovers  to  the  rage-distorted  countenance  of  the  Spanish 
captain. 

Ashley  holds  his  breath.  He  has  made  a  superb  bluff. 
Will  the  priest  fail  him  at  this  supreme  moment? 

"Speak,  vile  dog  of  a  priest!"  snarls  Huerta,  the  padre's 
silence  adding  fuel  to  his  rage. 

At  the  brutal  epithet  Father  Hilario's  cheek  flushes. 
Then  he  speaks,  slowly  and  deliberately: 

"It  is  true.  They  are  man  and  wife  in  the  sight  of  God, 
and  around  them  are  the  protecting  arms  of  the  church 
of  Rome."  He  raises  his  arms  as  if  pronouncing  a  bene 
diction,  and  murmurs  under  his  breath  a  pious:  "May 
God  forgive  me  the  deception  V 

Captain  Huerta  bites  his  lip  till  the  blood  comes.  One 
word  to  his  men  would  mean  the  destruction  of  the  heroic 
trio.  But  over  the  shining  barrel  of  Ashley's  revolver, 
pointed  straight  at  his  heart,  the  Spanish  captain  reads, 
in  a  pair  of  flashing  eyes,  a  grim  resolution  that  means 
his  death  if  he  but  raises  his  sword. 

The  situation  is  critical.  The  strain  is  beginning  to 
tell  on  even  Ashley's  steel  nerves. 

At  this  moment  a  commotion  is  noted  in  the  throng  of 
soldiery  that  bars  the  entrance  to  the  church. 

Pushing  them  right  and  left,  a  tall,  distinguished-look 
ing  military  man  strides  into  the  sanctuary. 

Don  Huerta  dashes  his  sword  back  into  its  sheath  and 
sullenly  awaits  developments. 

General  Murillo,  for  the  arrival  is  he,  glances  from  one 
of  the  party  to  the  other,  and  then  addresses  himself  to 
Ashley: 

"Senor,  may  I  ask  the  meaning  of  this  warlike  demon 
stration?" 

Ashley  lowers  his  revolver.  "It  means,  general,  that 
your  arrival  has  averted  an  international  episode." 


UNDER   THE    RED,  WHITE   AND   BLUE.  293 

General  Murillo  turns  to  Huerta.  "Withdraw  at  once,;' 
he  commands.  "I  will  see  you  anon.'' 

When  Captain  Huerta  and  his  men  have  left  the  church 
Murillo  asks: 

"And  now,  Senor  Ashley,  will  you  be  good  enough  to 
explain  this  peculiar  affair?" 

"Willingly.  But  first,  general,"  says  Jack,  with  a  faint 
grin,  "allow  me  to  introduce  you  to  the  prettiest  girl  in 
Cuba."  And  for  the  first  time  since  the  storming  of  the 
church  door  he  removes  his  arm  from  about  the  waist  of 
the  Pearl  of  the  Antilles. 

Murillo  bows  with  Spanish  profundity.  "I  have  the 
honor  of  the  acquaintance  of  the  Senorita  de  Quesada," 
he  remarks. 

"Who  is  now  plain  Mrs.  Jack  Ashley,"  corrects  the 
newspaper  man.  "Pardon  me  one  moment,  general,'' 
and  he  whispers  to  Juanita: 

"Father  Hilario  looks  very  disconsolate;  go  and  com 
fort  him.  And  now,  general,"  to  Murillo,  "I  am  at  your 
service." 

Ashley  recounts  briefly  the  exciting  events  that  took 
place  from  the  hour  he  left  the  ball-room  until  the  arrival 
of  his  auditor.  He  says  nothing  of  Mrs.  Harding. 

As  the  recital  progresses  Murillo's  face  darkens. 

"I  am  convinced,"  declares  Ashley,  in  conclusion, 
"that  my  arrest  was  wholly  the  work  of  that  scoundrel 
Huerta." 

"And  what  do  you  propose  to  do  now?"  asks  Murillo. 

"Well,  I  have  no  special  plans  beyond  settling  accounts 
with  Captain  Huerta." 

"I  will  do  the  settling  with  Captain  Huerta,"  observes 
the  general,  dryly.  "As  for  you — you  must  leave  Cuba.'' 

"My  duty  to  my  paper  will  not  permit  me  to  leave  at 
present.  And  even  were  I  free,  general,  I  should  not 
desire  to  be  understood  as  running  away." 

Murillo  makes  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "Just  like  you 
Americans.  You  would  all  want  to  fiddle  like  Caesar 
while  Rome  was  burning." 

"Your  pardon;  but  I  believe  Nero  was  the  soloist  on 
that  red-letter  occasion." 


294  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

The  general  frowns.  "Come  with  me,"  he  says;  "I 
will  furnish  to  you  the  necessary  papers  and  you  may  pro 
ceed  without  interruption  to  Santiago.  The  cruiser  Amer 
ica  sails  for  Key  West  to-morrow.  You  must  take  pas 
sage  on  her.  1  do  you  a  service,  Senor  Ashley,  and  I  do 
it  gladly,  as  I  have  a  friendship  for  you.  But  I  warn  you 
that  any  delay  in  leaving  Cuba  may  subject  you  to  much 
annoyance,  to  use  no  harsher  term.  The  government 
suspects  you  of  secretly  aiding  the  insurrection.'' 

"The  government  is  mistaken." 

Murillo  glances  at  Juanita,  and  smiles  ironically.  "Se 
nor  Ashley,"  he  says,  "I  am  not  so  easily  deceived.  The 
instrumentality  that  saved  the  senorita  from  annoyance 
is  the  same  instrumentality  that  placed  the  traitor  Que- 
sada  in  his  present  safe  retreat.  But  what  I  as  a  man 
might  applaud,  I  cannot  as  a  loyal  adherent  to  Spain 
condone;  nor  would  the  government  take  a  sentimental 
view  of  the  matter.  You  will  see  the  wisdom  of  my  advice. 
Come."  And  Murillo  leads  the  way  from  the  church. " 

Before  he  leaves  the  scene  of  his  new-found  happiness 
Jack  Ashley  presses  warmly  the  wrinkled  hands  of  Father 
Hilario.  "Father,  you're  a  brick,"  he  says,  and  adds  solic 
itously:  "Will  not  Captain  Huerta  seek  to  revenge  him 
self  upon  you?" 

"I  fear  him  not,"  replies  the  priest,  raising  his  head 
proudly.  Then,  placing  the  hand  of  Juanita  within  Ash 
ley's,  he  lays  a  hand  on  the  head  of  each,  and  in  a  voice 
choked  with  emotion  says: 

"My  children,  I  have  sinned  for  your  sake,  but  I  trust 
that  God  will  condone  the  offense.  Heaven  bless  and 
keep  you  and  when  you  are  happily  sheltered  in  your 
northern  home  think  sometimes  of  Father  Hilario,  of  the 
little  church  of  San  Pedro." 

Imprinting  a  kiss  upon  the  brow  of  the  Cuban  girl, 
the  aged  priest  turns  away  and  sinks  upon  his  knees 
before  the  crucifix  over  the  altar. 

It  requires  but  a  few  minutes  for  General  Murillo  to 
make  out  the  necessary  passports  and  as  he  hands  them  to 
Ashley,  he  remarks:  "You  will  follow  my  advice?" 

"I  will  follow  it  to  Santiago,  at  least,  general.'' 


UNDER    THE    RED,  WHITE    AND    BLUE.  295 

The  general  shrugs  his  shoulders.  "Do  as  you  please. 
I  have  warned  you,"  he  says,  and  turns  away. 

Ten  minutes  later  Ashley  and  Juanita  are  en  route  for 
Santiago  in  a  volante. 

The  young  lady  is  sad.    The  natural  reaction  has  set  in. 

"I  am  thinking  of  my  father,"  she  replies  to  Jack's 
attempt  to  rally  her. 

"Your  father  is  all  right,"  he  confidently  assures  her. 
"In  an  hour  or  two  you  will  be  in  his  arms,  and  I  shall 
have  the  pleasure  of  asking  him  for  the  hand  of  the 
dearest  girl  in  the  world.  Or,  stay,  I  am  progressing  too 
rapidly,"  he  mu'ses,  in  mock  concern.  "It  has  occurred 
to  me,"  he  goes  on,  "that — oh,  well,  of  course  a  proposal 
of  marriage  must  naturally  be  regarded  more  conserva 
tively  now  than — •— '' 

"Jack!" 

"Yes,  senorita." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?" 

"Of  you,  senorita.  Ah,  something  in  your  eyes  tells 
me  that  I  may  be  presumptuous  enough  to  hope." 

"What  nonsense!  There,  I  knew  you  were  joking," 
declares  Juanita,  as  she  catches  a  stray  twinkle  in  Jack's 
eye.  "You  foolish  boy,  you  know  I  love  you.  I  have 
loved  you  ever  since — I  met  you." 

"Three  whole  weeks  ago,"  muses  Ashley,  as  he  draws 
the  blushing  face  to  his  and  kisses  it. 

"Do  you  know,  I  have  been  insanely  jealous  of  your 
friend  Don  Carlos  all  along,"  confesses  Jack,  after  a  long, 
happy  silence,  during  which  the  pair  quite  forget  the 
volante  driver. 

"Jealous  of  Don  Carlos?  Oh!5'  cries  Juanita,  bursting 
into  merry  laughter. 

"I  admit  it  is  highly  humorous,  in  the  light  of  recent 
developments,"  says  Jack,  who  sees  nothing  to  laugh  at 
in  his  remark.  "What  is  there  so  amusing  in  it  all?" 

"Oh,  you  dear,  foolish  Jack/'  exclaims  the  girl,  throw 
ing  her  arms  around  his  neck.  "To  be  jealous  of  Don 
Carlos!  Why,  Don  Carlos  is  a  girl." 

"I  am  aware  that,  to  the  public  gaze,  Don  Carlos  is  at 
present  a  young  lady,"  returns  Ashley,  loftily,  "but  you 


296  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

must  remember  that  I  knew  Don  Carlos  before  he  ex 
changed  his  customary  attire  for  his  present  feminine 
toggery." 

"Oh,  how  superiorily  wise  you  look,"  banters  Juanita. 
"But  I  tell  you  that  Don  Carlos  has  always  been,  is  now 
and  always  will  be  a  girl!" 

"What!" 

"And  you  never  suspected  it — you  who  are  so  pene 
trating?"  mocks  the  young  lady. 

But  Jack  makes  no  reply.  His  mind  is  attempting  to 
digest  this  surprising  bit  of  information.  Then  a  light 
begins  to  break  upon  him. 

"Her  real  name — what  is  it?"  he  asks,  suddenly. 

Juanita  becomes  serious  again.  "I  must  not  divulge 
it,  Jack,  dear.  I  should  not  have  told  you  what  I  have, 
but  you  looked  so  comical  when  you  told  me  you  had 
been  jealous  of  Don  Carlos.  There,  please  don't  catec-hise 
me  further." 

"I  shall  not,"  replies  Ashley.  "Besides,  it  will  be  un 
necessary  for  you  to  betray  her  identity." 

"Then  you  know " 

"I  think  I  do.  As  I  more  than  once  remarked,  I  have 
an  excellent  memory  for  faces,  although  I  am  sometimes 

a  dev a  diablo  of  a  while  in  recalling  the  names  that 

go  with  them."  And  Ashley  relapses  into  meditation. 

"Well,  here  we  are  at  Santiago,"  announces  Jack.  "In 
a  short  time  you  can  bid  a  temporary  adieu  to  the  soil  of 
Cuba;  and  the  sooner  the  better." 

And  indeed,  the  streets  of  Santiago  are  in  apparent 
possession  of  a  riotous  mob,  swarming  in  and  out  of  the 
cafes. 

Ashley  and  Juanita  find  no  obstacles  in  their  path ;  half 
an  hour  later  they  are  aboard  the  America,  under  the  red, 
white  and  blue,  and  Juanita  is  in  her  father's  arms,  relat 
ing  breathlessly  the  thrilling  incidents  of  the  last  few 
hours. 

Ashley  leaves  them  to  their  exchange  of  confidence  and 
affection,  and  goes  off  to  talk  with  Captain  Meade.  When 
Ke  sees  Don  Quesada  again  that  gentleman  takes  his 


UNDER   THE   RED,  WHITE    AND   BLUE.  297 

hand  and  assures  him  that  he  is  honored  by  his  prospect 
ive  entrance  into  the  family. 

"As  for  Cuba,"  declares  the  Don,  his  eyes  lighting  with 
a  trace  of  their  old-time  fire,  "the  cause  of  the  patriots 
was  never  brighter.  To  be  sure,  I  am  a  fugitive,  and 
El  Terredo  yesterday  suffered  a  severe  defeat,  the  Pearl 
of  the  Antilles  having  been  destroyed  in  an  unequal  en 
gagement  with  three  Spanish  cruisers  and  gunboats.  But 
General  Masso  is  advancing  upon  Santiago,  with  10,000 
revolutionists,  and  the  fall  of  the  city  is  looked  for  within 
forty-eight  hours.  Already  the  Spanish  warships  are 
gathering  preparatory  to  shelling  the  place  should  it 
come  into  the  hands  of  the  patriots,  and  foreign  vessels 
are  preparing  to  leave  the  harbor." 

"I  believe  I  will  take  Murillo's  advice  for  the  present^' 
reflects  Ashley,  "but  I  shall  return  to-morrow  with  the 
cruiser  and  be  in  at  the  death."  Then  he  goes  in  search  of 
Juanita. 

"Now,"  says  that  young  lady,  "if  you  have  finished 
squeezing  my  hand  before  all  these  officers  and  seamen, 
come  below  and  I  will  introduce  you  to — to  'Miss  Car 
los'." 

"All  right,  sweetheart,"  replies  Jack,  gayly.  "Let  me 
see.  I  believe  you  remarked  early  this  morning  that  you 
would  never  doubt  me  again." 

"Yes?"  responds  the  young  lady,  inquiringly. 

"Then,  after  you  have  introduced  me  to  'Miss  Carlos' 
will  you  leave  us  alone  for  a  short  time?" 

"What  a  strange  request!    But  it  is  granted." 

"  Grood.    And  now  let  us  go  below." 

The  interview,  whatever  its  nature,  has  a  peculiar  effect 
upon  Ashley.  Upon  returning  from  it  he  is  saying  to 
himself,  sotto  voce. 

"By  Jove!  This  case  has  taken  a  turn  that  I  little 
looked  for.  I'd  give  four  dollars  to  see  John  Barker, 
detective,  at  this  moment." 


298  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

CHAPTER  LII. 

THE  ENCOUNTER  AT  THE  CAFE  DE  A'LMENDRAS. 

"You  have  settled  your  business  interests  in  this  coun 
try  satisfactorily?" 

"Perfectly  so.  Much  more  profitably,  indeed,  than  I 
expected." 

"Then  there  is  nothing  further  to  keep  you  here  except 
sight-seeing?" 

"Nothing — except  sight-seeing." 

Cyrus  Felton,  Phillip  Van  Zandt  and  Louise  Hathaway 
are  seated  on  the  veranda  of  the  little  Cafe  de  Almendras, 
on  the  outskirts  of  Santiago.  They  have  returned  this 
morning  from  a  short  jaunt  to  the  interior  and  are  not 
impressed  favorably  with  rural  Cuba.  So  they  gladly  re 
turn  to  the  contemplation  of  that  view  which  is  ever 
welcome,  no  matter  where  one  may  roam — old  ocean. 

"And  you,  Miss  Hathaway — have  you  any  Cuban  ties 
that  you  will  sever  with  regret?"  inquires  Van  Zandt. 

Miss  Hathaway  is  more  thoughtful  than  the  occasion 
would  seem  to  require.  "None,"  she  replies,  slowly. 
"Unless,"  she  adds  quickly,  "the  pleasure  of  your  society 
for  the  last  month  may  be  regarded  as  a  Cuban  tie." 

"Thank  you,"  rejoins  Van  Zandt,  with  a  glance  that 
brings  a  blush  to  the  face  of  the  Vermont  maiden. 

"No;  I  am  utterly,  uncompromisingly  disappointed 
with  Cuba,"  she  says.  "And  the  people!  But  I  have 
been  here  but  a  few  days,  so  I  shall  not  place  my  opinion 
upon  record." 

"And  yet  your  brief  impression  of  Cuba,  Miss  Hatha 
way,  would  not  be  likely  to  change  much  for  the  better 
if  you  were  to  spend  a  dozen  years  here.  The  country  is 
uninteresting.  The  Spaniard  cannot  be  changed.  The 
Cuban — that  is,  the  Cuban  we  see  about  us — does  not 
deserve  freedom.  He  lets  the  blacks  and  his  brothers 
of  the  chaparral  do  all  the  fighting,  and  hardly  dares,  ex 
cept  in  private,  to  express  his  cordial  hatred  of  his  ancient 


ENCOUNTER  AT  THE  CAFE  DE  ALMANDRAS.    299 

enemy.  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Felton,  I  rather  fancied  that 
you  had  relatives  in  Cuba." 

"Relatives  in  Cuba?"  The  little  color  suddenly  recedes 
from  Mr.  Felton's  face. 

"Yes,"  says  Van  Zandt.  "The  day  before  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  meeting  you  and  Miss  Hathaway  I  was  read 
ing  in  a  New  York  paper  an  interview  with  a  member  of 
the  Cuban  revolutionary  society.  In  speaking  of  the 
diversified  character  of  the  Spanish  officers  in  Cuba,  the 
gentleman  mentioned  that  attached  to  the  staff  of  Gen 
eral  Truenos  was  a  young  American,  a  former  sugar 
planter.  His  name  was  Felton,  but  he  changed  it  to 
Alvarez.  When  I  first  discovered  your  name  and  learned 
that  you  were  en  route  to  Cuba  I  unconsciously  associated 
you  with  this  young  sugar  planter  so  friendly  to  the  Span 
ish  cause." 

During  Van  Zandt's  speech,  delivered  in  apparently- 
careless  tones,  Mr.  Felton  succeeds  in  mastering  a  strong 
emotion.  Louise  is  regarding  him  somewhat  nervously, 
but  Van  Zandt  quickly  refills  Miss  Hathaway's  glass  with 
jerez  and  passes  it  to  her  with  a  smiling  comment  on  the 
quality  of  the  wine. 

The  rather  awkward  silence  is  broken  by  Mr.  Felton. 

"Mr.  Van  Zandt,  and  to  you,  Louise,  I  may  say  that 
I  believe  I  have  a  son  in  Cuba,  and  that  he  is  the  young 
man  alluded  to  in  that  newspaper.  One  reason  why  I 
have  come  to  Cuba  is  to  find  that  son.  I  supposed  he  was 
operating  the  sugar  plantation  that  we  visited  last  week. 
I  did  not  know  that  he  had  joined  the  Spanish  service." 

"I  regret,"  remarks  Van  Zandt,  "that  my  idle  remark 
should  have  stirred  you  to  speak  of  a  matter  on  which 
you  might  have  preferred  to  have  remained  silent." 

"The  subject  is  a  painful  one,  it  is  true,  but  once  started 
I  may  as  well  go  on  to  the  end.  It  is  nearly  a  year  ago 
— the  ist  of  June — that  Ralph  left  home,  and  since  then 
I  have  heard  from  him  but  twice,  and  vaguely  each 
time." 

Both  Mr.  Felton  and  Louise  are  gazing  seaward,  else 
they  would  note  the  swift  look  of  surprise  that  passes 
across  Van  Zandt's  face. 


300  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

'The  ist  of  June,"  he  repeats,  as  if  attempting  to  recall 
some  incident  of  the  past.  "Did  not  something  peculiar 
occur  in  Raymond — that  is  the  name  of  your  town,  is  it 
not? — about  that  time?" 

Mr.  Felton  shoots  a  quick,  inquiring  look  at  Van 
Zandt's  face,  but  reads  nothing  there  except  disinterested 
curiosity. 

"Something  very  peculiar  occurred  two  days  before 
that  date,"  he  replies,  gravely.  "On  the  night  of  Memorial 
day  Roger  Hathaway,  Louise's  father,  the  cashier  of  the 
Raymond  National  Bank,  was  found  dead  in  his  office  at 
the  bank,  and  the  institution  was  discovered  to  have 
been  robbed  of  a  large  amount  of  money.  The  murderer 
has  never  been  discovered  and  presumably  never  will  be." 

An  expression  of  self-reproach  is  visible  in  Van  Zandt's 
face  as  he  turns  to  Louise. 

"Forgive  me,  Miss  Hathaway;  I  was  not  aware " 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  Mr.  Van  Zandt,"  Louise 
replies.  "But  I  do  not  share  Mr.  Felton's  opinion  that 
the  veil  of  mystery  enshrouding  the  tragedy  will  never 
be  lifted.  Something  within  me  tells  me  that  one  day 
the  slayer  of  my  father  will  be  brought  to  justice." 

Miss  Hathaway  again  turns  her  eyes,  now  wet  with 
tears,  toward  the  sea.  Mr.  Felton  is  very  pale  and  it 
is  apparent  that  he  would  welcome  a  change  in  the  con 
versation.  Van  Zandt,  however,  continues: 

"Now,  that  you  speak  of  it,"  he  says,  knitting  his 
brows,  "I  recall  that  I  read  something  about  the  case 
in  the  papers  at  the  time.  Was  no  one  suspected?" 

"Three  persons  were  suspected — two  of  them  unjustly. 
Derrick  Ames" — with  a  quick  glance  at  Louise,  who 
flushes  scarlet  and  bites  her  lips — "was  one  and  my  son 
the  other.  You  may  be  surprised  at  my  stating  this," 
in  response  to  Van  Zandt's  questioning  gaze,  "but  you 
will  understand  better  why  I  am  so  anxious  to  find  Ralph. 
He  had  some  motive  for  leaving  Raymond  as  he  did, 
and  until  that  motive  is  discovered  and  his  name  cleared 
I  shall  be  one  of  the  most  unhappy  of  fathers." 

"And  the  third  party  suspected?  You  have  mentioned 
only  two,"  says  Van  Zandt. 


ENCOUNTER  AT  THE  CAFE  DE  ALMENDRAS.    301 

"The  thiid?  Oh,  yes;  the  third  was  a  young  man 
named  Ernest  Stanley.  He  was  the  only  stranger  in 
Raymond,  so  far  as  known,  on  the  day  of  the  tragedy. 
This  young  man  had  been  liberated  from  state  prison 
on  Memorial  day,  after  serving  two  years  of  a  three 
years'  sentence  for  forgery." 

"Then  there  was  fairly  good  reason  for  suspecting 
him?"  comments  Van  Zandt,  with  an  enigmatic  smile. 
"Give  a  dog  a  bad  name,  you  know.  But  tell  me  about 
the  fellow.  I  confess  I  am  rather  interested  in  him.  Was 
his  forgery  a  very  serious  affair?'' 

"A  matter  of  $1,000.     Mine  was  the  name  he  forged." 

"Indeed.     How  did  you  trace  it?" 

"That  was  a  peculiar  feature  of  the  case.  Stanley 
presented  the  check  at  the  bank  of  which  I  was  presi 
dent." 

"Rather  a  blundering  piece  of  business,  should  you 
not  say?  But  may  he  not  have  been  innocent?" 

"The  forgery  was  proved.'' 

"Ah!  Stanley  admitted  it?" 

"No;  he  told  a  fanciful  story  of  the  check  having  been 
given  to  him  in  New  York,  in  payment  of  a  gambling 
debt." 

"Nothing  impossible  in  that  story,  Mr.  Felton.  I  will 
tell  you  why.  A  night  or  two  before  we  left  New  York 
I  was  seated  in  Madison  Square  garden,  listening  to  a 
concert,  when  a  party  of  sporting  men  sat  down  at  the 
next  table,  and  one  of  them  entertained  his  companions 
by  relating  a  reminiscence  of  a  game  of  draw  poker  in 
which  he  had  played  a  part  two  or  three  years  before. 
I  will  not  repeat  the  story,  but  perhaps  you  will  under 
stand  the  point  I  am  trying  to  make.  Four  men  were 
playing  and  during  the  course  of  one  hand  the  betting 
had  narrowed  to  two  of  them.  A  held  what  he  believed 
to  be  a  well-nigh  invincible  hand.  Flushed  with  con 
fidence,  and  irritated  by  his  opponent's  insinuation  that 
he  had  no  more  money  to  wager,  A  took  a  check-book 
from  his  pocket,  wrote  a  check  for  $1,000  or  some  such 
sum,  and  tossed  it  upon  the  table.  The  bet  was  covered, 
the  hands  shown  down,  and  A  lost.  Now,"  finishes  Van 


302  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

Zandt,  "A  might  not  have  had  a  dollar  in  the  bank.  He 
might  have  put  a  worthless  check  upon  the  table,  know 
ing,  as  he  thought  he  knew,  that  there  was  not  one  chance 
in  a  thousand  of  a  necessity  for  its  payment  arising. 
That  being  the  case,  what  mattered  it  whose  name  was 
on  the  check,  his  own  or — well,  say  his  father's?  I  am 
only  theorizing  on  what  might  naturally  occur  some  time, 
you  know." 

Cyrus  Felton's  face  has  become  ghastly  and  he  ap 
pears  to  be  on  the  verge  of  collapse.  Miss  Hathaway 
regards  Van  Zandt  with  wonder  and  apprehension.  The 
latter  seems  unconscious  of  the  effect  his  words  have  pro 
duced,  and  he  remarks  carelessly:  "But  I  will  not  dis 
cuss  the  matter  further,  as  I  suspect  it  bores  you." 

At  this  instant  the  clatter  of  hoof-beats  sounds  from 
the  road,  as  a  detachment  of  Spanish  caballeria  ride  up, 
tether  their  horses  and  hurry  boisterously  into  the  cafe. 
The  Americans  are  established  on  a  quiet  veranda  at 
the  rear  of  the  building,  where  they  may  be  free  from 
just  such  interruptions. 

"Are  you  ready  to  depart?"  says  Van  Zandt  to  his  com 
panions. 

"I  am  anxious  to  return  to  Santiago  as  soon  as  pos 
sible,"  declares  Mr.  Felton. 

Van  Zandt  raps  upon  the  table  for  the  waiter,  but  no 
response  is  made.  Host  and  helpers  are  busily  occupied 
with  their  noisy  guests. 

"Pardon  me  a  moment.  I  will  step  within  and  settle 
the  account,''  says  Van  Zandt,  as  he  rises  and  enters  the 
cafe. 

The  drinking-room  is  crowded  with  the  boisterous 
soldiery,  disporting  themselves  as  if  war  were  an  amuse 
ment  and  the  curtain  nearly  down  on  the  farce  of  revolu 
tion. 

The  presumptive  leader  of  the  troopers  is  a  tall,  rather 
handsome  young  fellow,  who  sits  with  his  back  against 
the  wall  and  a  glass  in  his  hand.  There  is  no  one  within  a 
dozen  or  twenty  feet  of  him  except  one  caballero,  with 
a  scar  across  his  forehead,  who  sits  by  himself  at  a 
table. 


ENCOUNTER  AT  THE  CAFE  DE  ALMENDRAS.     303 

As  Van  Zandt  enters  and  closes  the  door  behind  him 
the  Spanish  captain  glances  up  and  their  eyes  meet. 

"Great  heavens!  Am  I  dreaming,"  mutters  Van 
Zandt.  And  then  he  stands  with  white  face  and  clenched 
fists,  staring  at  the  man  before  him. 

The  latter  returns  the  stare.  "I  trust  you  will  know 
me  again  senor,"  he  remarks,  ungraciously,  as  he  sets 
clown  his  glass  and  strikes  a  match  to  ignite  a  cigarette. 

"I  believe  I  have  had  the  misfortune  of  meeting  you 
before,"  Van  Zandt  replies,  folding  his  arms  and  regard 
ing  the  other  with  blazing  eyes. 

The  Spanish  captain  shrugs  his  shoulders.  "May  I 
ask  where?"  he  inquires  coolly. 

"In  the  United  States." 

"The  senor  is  mistaken.  I  have  never  been  in  the 
states." 

"You  lie!" 

"Curse  you!  What  d'ye  mean?"  demands  the  Spanish 
captain  in  the  purest  of  English,  as  he  drops  his  hand 
upon  his  sword  hilt.  The  man  at  the  table  near  by  lays 
down  his  paper  and  turns  a  pair  of  interested  eyes  toward 
the  young  men. 

"You  lie !"  repeats  Van  Zandt,  moving  not  a  step.  Then 
he  says  in  a  voice  passionate  with  hatred  and  ringing 
with  the  exultation  of  a  Nemesis  about  to  strike: 

"So,  Ralph  Felton,  I  have  found  you  at  last!" 


CHAPTER  LIII. 
A  WOMAN'S  VENGEANCE. 

The  cigarette  falls  from  the  Spanish  captain's  nerveless 
fingers  and  his  face  turns  gray. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  gasps. 

"My  name  is  Phillip  Van  Zandt.  I  don't  wonder, 
Ralph  Felton,  that  you  fail  to  recognize  me  by  that  name, 
though  it  is  my  true  one.  But  you  will  understand  why 


304  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

I  have  sought  you  and  why  I  exult  in  now  standing  face 
to  face  with  you,  when  I  breathe  the  name  of  Ernest 
Stanley!" 

"You  are  Ernest  Stanley?'' 

"I  was  Ernest  Stanley.  Now,  I  am  his  avenger. 
Listen  to  me,"  commands  Van  Zandt,  as  Felton  strives 
to  speak.  "When  the  doors  of  that  New  England  prison 
closed  upon  me,  nearly  three  years  ago,  I  swore  that 
I  would  be  avenged  upon  the  scoundrel  who  put  me 
there.  Until  a  month  ago  I  did  not  know  his  name. 
Until  to-day  I  was  not  sure  that  the  father  was  an  ac 
complice  to  the  villainy  of  the  son.  But  when  I  did 
learn  who  the  coward  was  for  whom  I  suffered  I  told 
myself  that  this  world,  vast  as  it  is,  was  too  small  to  hold 
him  and  me.  Do  you  understand?  You  cur!  Do  you 
understand?" 

Felton  glances  about  the  cafe.  The  soldier  at  the  table 
near  by  has  again  picked  up  his  newspaper  and  is  ab 
sorbed  in  its  columns.  But  any  one  who  might  take  the 
pains  to  investigate  would  discover  that  he  is  not  reading 
the  paper.  The  score  or  more  of  others  are  occupied  in 
their  drink,  jest  and  song. 

Felton  has  regained  his  composure  and  lights  a  ciga 
rette  with  a  steady  hand. 

"Are  you  aware,  Senor  Van  Zandt,  that  at  one  word 
from  me  my  men  would  cut  you  to  pieces?"  he  sneers. 

"I  know  that  one  such  word  will  mean  your  instant 
death,"  is  the  stern  response. 

"Well,  I  shall  not  utter  it,"  says  Felton,  coolly.  "I  am 
competent  to  take  care  of  myself.  A  moment  ago  you 
called  me  a  coward.  I  will  prove  to  you  that  I  am  not. 
You  seek  satisfaction?" 

A  bitter  smile  flits  over  Van  Zandt's  face.  "Satisfac 
tion!"  he  murmurs.  "Ay,  I  demand  satisfaction  for  two 
years  of  utter  misery  and,  by  heavens,  I  shall  have  it!" 

"You  shall!     I  swear  it!" 

"Ah!     And  when?" 

"At  once.  This  is  my  only  opportunity  to  accommo 
date  you  at  present,  as  I  am  ordered  to  Cienfuegos  to- 


A   WOMAN'S   VENGEANCE.  305 

morrow.  Come,  I  will  wait  for  you  without."  So  say 
ing,  Felton  turns  on  his  heel. 

Van  Zandt  regards  him  with  a  look  in  which  suspicion 
is  mingled  with  a  trace  of  admiration  for  his  sang  froid. 

"You  will  attempt  no  treachery?"  he  says,  sternly. 

"I  tell  you,  sir,  I  am  not  a  coward,"  answers  Felton, 
haughtily. 

"That  he  is  not/'  mutters  the  soldier  with  the  scarred 
forehead,  and  he  adds,  as  if  addressing  the  newspaper 
in  his  hand:  "This  is  a  devilish  unfortunate  affair.  I 
must  have  a  hand  in  it.  Hello !  Was  not  that  a  woman's 
scream?"  He  rises  and,  throwing  open  the  door  leading 
to  the  rear  of  the  cafe,  steps  out  upon  the  veranda.  An 
instant  later  he  dashes  the  door  shut  with  an  ejaculation 
of  amazement. 

Standing  at  the  further  end  of  the  veranda,  terror  de 
picted  in  her  colorless  cheeks,  is  Louise  Hathaway.  A 
dozen  feet  from  her  is  one  of  the  troopers,  who  has 
strolled  out  upon  the  veranda,  and,  while  much  the  worse 
for  liquor,  has  plainly  insulted  the  American  girl.  When 
the  new-comer  arrives  on  the  scene,  he  sees  the  caballero 
wiping  the  blood  from  a  long,  deep  scratch  across  his 
rage-contorted  face.  Between  insulter  and  insulted  Cyrus 
Felton  interposes  a  feeble  barrier. 

With  a  muttered  malediction  the  baffled  Spaniard  turns 
and  re-enters  the  cafe,  followed  by  the  scarred  soldier, 
whose  timely  arrival  has  doubtless  saved  Miss  Hathaway 
from  further  affront. 

"Jove!  I  shall  have  my  hands  full  for  a  few  minutes," 
that  individual  soliloquizes.  "Ah,  one  moment,"  as  Van 
Zandt  attempts  to  brush  by  him.  "You  have  some 
friends  out  here,  senor." 

"Well?"  demands  Van  Zandt,  with  a  stare. 

"Get  them  away  at  once,  or  these  devils  in  here  may 
make  it  hot  for  them." 

"I  do  not  understand." 

"You  have  no  time  to  listen  to  a  lengthy  explanation. 
Do  as  I  direct.  Send  your  friends  to  the  consul's  and 
have  them  avoid  the  main  road.  There  is  a  path  through 
the  garden,  and  beyond  that  a  trail  down  the  hillside  to 


306  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

the  beach.  It  is  but  a  mile  to  the  consul's  residence  by 
that  route.  They'll  be  safe  at  the  consul's." 

All  this  is  delivered  in  low,  rapid  tones  and  as  Van 
Zandt  moves  away  the  soldier  turns  and  sees  the  drunken 
cavalier  standing  within  a  few  feet  of  him,  a  malicious 
smile  upon  his  evil  face.  "Hello!  What  the  devil  are 
you  playing  the  spy  for?"  cries  he  of  the  scar,  and  passes 
on  with  the  muttered  thought:  "I  wonder  if  the  chap 
understands  English." 

When  Van  Zandt  rejoins  Mr.  Felton  and  Louise  he 
finds  the  old  man  as  white  as  death  and  his  head  sunk 
upon  his  breast,  while  Miss  Hathaway  is  in  a  semi-hy 
sterical  condition. 

"I'm  so  glad  you  have  returned,"  says  the  latter,  as 
she  comes  forward  to  greet  him  and  she  tells  him  of 
the  encounter  with  the  Spaniard. 

"The  scoundrel !"  grits  Van  Zandt,  starting  toward  the 
cafe.  But  he  remembers  that  he  has  more  serious  busi 
ness  on  hand  than  thrashing  a  drunken  trooper,  and  lj.e 
turns  gravely  to  his  companions: 

"Miss  Hathaway,  and  you,  Mr.  Felton,  I  must  ask  you 
to  proceed  immediately  to  the  residence  of  the  American 
consul.  I  have  a  little  matter  that  demands  my  presence 
here  for  another  half-hour,  and  meanwhile  it  will  not  be 
safe  for  you  to  remain.  Nor  will  it  be  well  to  go  by  the 
main  road.  The  city  is  in  the  hands  of  a  mob.  The 
scoundrel  who  insulted  you  is  a  fair  example.  I  was 
warned  by  one  of  the  men  within — an  Englishman,  I 
should  judge  from  his  voice  and  manner." 

Mr.  Felton  and  Miss  Hathaway  regard  Van  Zandt  ap 
prehensively,  and  Louise  wonders  at  the  pallor  of  his 
face  and  the  strange  look  in  his  eyes. 

"You  know  where  the  residence  of  the  consul  is.  You 
must  follow  yonder  path  through  the  garden,  and  strike 
the  trail  down  the  hillside  to  the  sea;  it  is  only  a  short 
walk.  I  will  rejoin  you  there  within  the  hour — if  I 
live,"  says  Van  Zandt,  with  a  significance  not  understood 
by  his  auditors. 

Without  a  word  Cyrus  Felton  rises  and,  followed  by 


A   WOMAN'S   VENGEANCE.  307 

Miss  Hathaway,  starts  off  through  the  garden  in  the  di 
rection  indicated  by  Van  Zandt's  outstretched  arm. 

While  all  this  has  taken  place  Ralph  Felton  has  been 
leaning  in  the  doorway  at  the  front  of  the  cafe.  He  looks 
up  when  Sanchez,  the  besotted  sabaltern,  comes  in  from 
his  encounter  with  the  American  girl,  and  signals  to 
him. 

"Sanchez,  I  have  a  little  affair  of  honor  to  settle  within 
the  hour,  he  says.  "If  I  do  not  return,  you  are  second 
in  command.  You  understand?" 

"Is  it  'a  la  mort'?"  inquires  Sanchez. 

Felton  nods  and  turns  away,  and  Sanchez  goes  back 
into  the  cafe  in  season  to  hear  the  last  words  of  the 
warning  extended  to  Van  Zandt  by  the  soldier  with  the 
scar. 

Felton  lights  another  cigarette  and  awaits  indifferently 
the  appearance  of  his  implacable  foe. 

"I  am  ready,  sir,"  says  a  stern  voice  at  his  elbow. 

"And  I  have  been  ready  for  some  minutes.  Come." 
And  Felton  leads  the  way  across  the  road  and  into  a  path 
to  the  woods. 

The  soldier  with  the  scar  walks  out  into  the  dooryard 
and  watches  the  disappearing  figures,  "That  duel  must 
not  take  place,"  he  says.  "But  how  on  earth  am  I  to 
prevent  it?  Hello!  What's  this?" 

His  attention  is  attracted  by  an  ejaculation  within  the 
cafe.  Two  men  are  whispering  by  the  window  next  the 
entrance. 

"What  deviltry  is  this?"  he  scowls,  bending  his  head. 
And  as  he  listens  the  scowl  deepens  on  his  face,  and  his 
fingers  clutch  at  his  pistol  stock.  "By  heavens!  I  must 
prevent  that  duel  now,"  he  mutters. 

Simultaneous  with  a  command  given  to  the  half-in 
toxicated  Sanchez,  he  of  the  scar  hears  the  sound  of  a 
shot  over  in  the  woods. 

"Treachery!"  he  exclaims,  and  bounds  away  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  report. 


308  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

Felton  and  Van  Zandt  proceed  silently  into  the  thicket. 
A  short  distance  from  the  entrance  to  the  woods  is  a 
cleared  spot. 

"This  will  probably  suit  our  purpose,"  remarks  Felton, 
and,  coolly,  he  measures  off  ten  paces. 

"That  will  be  distance  enough,  will  it  not?"  he  asks. 
Van  Zandt  nods. 

"Will  you  give  the  word,  Mr.  Van  Zandt?" 

"As  you  please.  We  will  fire  at  the  word  'Three.'" 
Both  men  draw  their  revolvers. 

"One  moment,"  interrupts  Felton.  "In  the  event  of 
a  second  fire?" 

"There  will  be  no  second  fire,"  is  the  grim  rejoinder. 
"I  shall  kill  you  with  the  first." 

"And  I  will  endeavor  not  to  waste  mine.  Well,  sir,  I 
am  waiting." 

"One!"  Two  arms  are  raised,  and  not  a  tremor  in 
either. 

"Two!"    The  pistols  click. 

The  word  "Three"  is  trembling  on  Van  Zandt's  lips, 
when  a  shot  rings  out  from  the  thicket.  Felton  clasps 
his  hand  to  his  abdomen,  with  an  exclamation  of  pain, 
sways  a  moment  and  pitches  headlong  to  the  earth. 

The  bushes  part  and  a  woman,  heavily  veiled,  steps 
forth,  smoking  pistol  in  hand  and  walks  to  where  Felton 
lies. 

She  looks  upon  the  body  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and 
hisses: 

"You  cowardly  hound!  Your  end  is  fitting!"  Then, 
throwing  back  her  veil,  she  reveals  the  face  of  Isabel 
Harding. 

"I  have  saved  you,  Phillip,"  she  says,  with  a  calmness 
that  is  very  near  madness. 

"You  have  cheated  me  of  my  vengeance,"  he  replies, 
looking  gloomily  upon  the  body  of  her  victim. 

"My  wrongs  called  for  greater  vengeance  than  yours,'' 
cries  the  woman,  her  eyes  glittering  feverishly  and  her 
voice  breaking  hysterically.  "I  followed  him  here.  I 
saw  through  the  cafe  window  your  meeting  with  him, 
and  I  exulted  that  I  was  in  time — in  time  to  save  the 


A   WOMAN'S   VENGEANCE.  309 

man  I  loved!  Phillip!  Phillip,"  sobs  Isabel,  sinking  on 
one  knee  beside  him,  "I  told  you  that  some  day  you 
would  realize  how  much  I  loved  you!" 

But  Van  Zandt,  with  a  shudder  and  expression  of  utter 
aversion,  turns  away. 

"Ah,  I  see  I  am  too  late,"  remarks  a  quiet  voice,  and 
Van  Zandt  looks  up  to  see  the  friendly  soldier  with  the 
scar. 

"To  the  consul's  if  you  would  save  the  American  girl," 
says  the  latter.  "I'll  look  after  these  obsequies.  Come, 
be  off,"  as  Van  Zandt  stares  at  him  in  surprise.  "A  plot 
is  afoot,  headed  by  that  precious  Lieut.  Sanchez,  and  you 
have  no  time  to  lose." 

"But  the  consul " 

"The  consul  was  at  his  office  in  the  city  two  hours 
ago,  and  is  doubtless  there  yet.  Ah,  you  are  too  late." 
The  clatter  of  departing  hoof-beats  is  borne  upon  their 
ears.  "No;  you  can  reach  the  consul's  ahead  of  them, 
by  the  short-cut  down  the  hillside.  Here!  Take  my  re 
volver!  You  may  need  more  than  one.  And  mind,  don't 
waist  any  ammunition,"  shouts  the  soldier,  as  Van  Zandt 
dashes  off. 

Then  he  turns  to  the  scene  of  the  tragedy.  He  kneels 
beside  Felton's  body  and  makes  a  brief  examination. 
Then  he  straightens  up. 

"Go !''  he  says  sternly,  to  Mrs.  Harding.  "Your  work 
is  done!" 

She  stares  at  him  a  moment,  with  her  glittering  eyes; 
then,  with  a  little  shudder,  tosses  the  revolver  into  the 
bushes,  turns  and  walks  slowly  away. 

The  caballero  watches  her  out  of  sight  and  again  turns 
to  the  body  of  the  Spanish  captain. 

"Humph!"  he  grunts,  as  he  lifts  the  limp  form  from 
the  ground.  "He  is  worth  a  dozen  dead  men,  or  my 
name  isn't  John  Barker." 


310  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

CHAPTER  LIV. 

AT  BAY  IN  THE  CONSUL'S  HOUSE. 

"There  is  something  very  odd  in  Mr.  Van  Zandt's  ac 
tions,"  remarks  Miss  Hathaway,  as  she  and  Mr.  Felton 
follow  the  winding  trail  down  the  hillside  to  the  sea. 
The  latter  offers  no  explanation.  He  has  aged  fearfully 
in  the  last  half-hour,  and  it  is  now  a  bowed,  feeble,  old 
man  whom  his  companion  more  than  once  has  to  assist 
over  the  obstacles  in  their  rough  path. 

"To  the  consul's.  To  the  consul's,"  is  all  he  says,  and 
the  journey  is  finished  in  silence. 

The  residence  of  William  Atwood,  United  States  con 
sul,  is  situated  about  two  hundred  yards  back  from  the 
shore,  about  a  half  a  mile  below  the  mole  at  Santiago. 
The  nearest  neighbor  is  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  toward 
the  city.  It  is  a  plain,  square,  two-storied  structure.  A 
broad  veranda  fronts  both  stories  and  ivy  very  nearly 
conceals  three  of  the  walls  of  the  building.  An  innova 
tion,  to  the  Cuban  view  absurd,  is  an  electric  door-bell, 
put  in  by  the  consul  himself.  It  is  this  bell  that  Mr. 
Felton  presses,  with  the  remark:  "I  begin  to  feel  at 
home  already." 

The  summons  are  answered  by  a  porter  who  tells 
them  that  the  consul  is  gone. 

"Gone?  Gone  where?''  demands  Mr.  Felton,  with  a 
start  of  uneasiness  that  is  inexplicable  to  Miss  Hatha 
way. 

The  consul  is  at  the  city.  Where,  quien  sabe?  Prob 
ably  at  his  office  in  the  city. 

"We  can  do  nothing  except  await  his  return  or  the 
arrival  of  Mr.  Van  Zandt,"  Louise  says,  as  they  step 
into  the  hall. 

At  the  right  of  the  entrance  is  the  library.  On  the 
desk  is  pen  and  paper,  and  here  Cyrus  Felton  seats  him 
self  and  writes,  while  Louise  stands  in  the  doorway  and 
watches  him  with  troubled  eyes. 


AT   BAY   IN    THE   CONSUL'S    HOUSE.  311 

Suddenly  she  hears  the  sound  of  footsteps  hurrying  up 
the  walk.  The  door  is  thrown  open,  and  Van  Zandt, 
breathing  hard  from  the  exertion  of  his  run,  stands  be 
fore  her. 

"Thank  God,  you  are  safe!"  he  cries,  fervently. 

"What  danger  threatens?"  asks  Louise,  laying  one 
hand  upon  Van  Zandt's  arm. 

For  answer  he  leads  the  way  out  upon  the  veranda. 
"Look!"  he  says;  and  Miss  Hathaway  beholds  the  Semi- 
ramis,  resting  quietly  upon  the  still  bosom  of  the  bay. 

"We  must  reach  that  yacht,  or  I  fear  we  may  not 
leave  Cuba  alive!"  he  tells  her. 

Louise  gazes  at  him  in  questioning  dismay. 

"Ah,  there  comes  the  enemy,"  says  Van  Zandt,  point 
ing  up  the  beach  toward  the  city.  A  small  troop  of 
horsemen  is  approaching  at  a  lively  canter. 

"What  is  all  this  mystery?  Why  do  you  fear  those 
men?"  asks  Louise,  as  they  re-enter  the  house. 

"It  is  not  for  myself  that  I  tremble,"  replies  Van 
Zandt,  who  is  critically  examining  his  pistols. 

"Then  it  is  I  whom  they  seek.  Your  silence  answers 
yes,"  says  Louise  quietly.  She  is  very  white,  but  her 
voice  does  not  tremble.  Like  a  true  heroine  she  has 
grown  calm  in  the  face  of  danger. 

"By  heaven!''  Van  Zandt  bursts  forth;  "my  life  stands 
between  you  and  those  Spanish  devils,  and  gladly  do  I 
place  it  there.  As  for  you,"  turning  to  Cyrus  Felton, 
who  has  risen  from  the  library  table  and  stands  near 
them,  "I  would  not  lift  a  finger  to  save  your  worthless 
existence.  For  the  wrongs  which  I  have  suffered,  for 
the  misery  which  you  and  your  son  have  caused  me, 
I  meant  to  have  exacted  a  bitter  reparation,  but  fate 
has  otherwise  decreed.  Ah,  you  know  me!" 

"Spare  me  your  reproaches,"  says  the  old  man,  lifting 
his  hand  in  protest.  "I  know  you.  You  are  Ernest  Stan 
ley.  What  I  have  dreaded,  yet  for  nearly  a  year  expect 
ed,  has  come  at  last.  My  sin  has  found  me  out." 

"Ah,  that  it  has.  But  you  are  safe  from  my  hands  now, 
and  maybe  from  that  of  the  law  before  this  day  is  ended. 
Out  of  the  way,  unless  you  wish  your  miserable  life  cut 


312  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

short  by  a  Spanish  bullet.  Miss  Hathaway,  I  must  ask 
you  to  step  into  the  library,  as  our  visitors  have  arrived." 
And,  throwing  open  the  door,  Van  Zandt  stands  upon 
the  threshold,  waiting. 

Lieutenant  Sanchez  and  his  men  rein  their  horses  with 
in  a  dozen  paces  of  the  house.  The  leader  dismounts 
and  comes  leisurely  up  the  walk,  apparently  oblivious 
of  the  presence  of  Van  Zandt,  whose  watchful  eyes  are 
covering  every  movement  of  the  scoundrelly  band. 

"One  moment,"  commands  the  American,  holding  up 
his  hand.  But  the  Spaniard  pays  not  the  slightest  atten 
tion. 

"Halt!" 

This  time  Sanchez  pauses  and  strokes  his  mustachios 
with  exasperating  calmness.  "I  would  advise  the  senor 
to  make  no  opposition  if  he  values  his  life,"  he  says. 

"What  is  your  errand  here?'' 

"The  American  senorita,  to  whom  I  am  indebted  for 
this  token.''  Sanchez  indicates  the  long,  dull-red  scratch 
upon  his  unamiable  visage.  "I  have  no  time  or  inclina 
tion  to  parley  with  you,  senor.  Out  of  the  way,  or  I  shall 
order  my  men  to  fire  upon  you."  The  troopers  half-raise 
their  carbines. 

Van  Zandt  tears  down  a  worn  edition  of  the  stars  and 
stripes  that  decks  the  wall  above  his  head,  and  as  he 
throws  it  across  his  breast  and  shoulder  his  voice  rings 
out  defiantly: 

"Fire  upon  the  American  flag,  if  you  dare!" 

The  answer  is  a  volley  that  splinters  the  woodwork 
about  him  and  brings  down  the  glass  above  the  door  in 
a  shower.  Van  Zandt  feels  a  sharp  twinge  in  his  left 
arm,  and  with  an  exclamation  of  rage  and  pain  he  lifts 
his  revolver  and  fires. 

Lieutenant  Sanchez  falls  dead  in  his  tracks  and  there 
is  an  instant  scattering  out  of  range  on  the  part  of  his 
followers. 

As  Van  Zandt  closes  the  door  and  slips  the  bolt  he 
turns  to  see  Cyrus  Felton  lying  upon  the  floor,  a  stream 
of  blood  flowing  from  a  wound  in  his  side. 


AT    BAY    IN    THE    CONSUL'S    HOUSE.  313 

"Fool!  I  cautioned  him  to  keep  out  of  range,"  he  ex 
claims,  as  he  bends  over  the  old  man. 

"Is  he  badly  hurt?"  asks  the  voice  of  Louise. 

"I  fear  so.  We  must  retreat  upstairs,  as  we  may  ex 
pect  an  assault  at  any  instant.  Quick!" 

As  Louise  ascends  to  the  floor  above,  Van  Zandt  fol 
lows  with  his  unconscious  burden.  In  the  rear  room 
is  a  sofa,  and  upon  this  Mr.  Felton  is  laid. 

"I  have  but  a  few  minutes  to  live.  Forgive  me,"  he 
gasps. 

"God  may  forgive  you,"  replies  Van  Zandt,  turning 
bitterly  away.  Louise  takes  his  hand  in  hers. 

"Surely,  Mr.  Van  Zandt,  you  can  forgive  the  past  in 
this  awful  moment,"  she  says,  softly.  "Remember,  he 
was  a  father  and  he  loved  his  son." 

At  the  contact  of  that  little  hand  Van  Zandt  feels  a 
thrill  creep  over  him. 

"You  know  now  who  I  am,''  he  says,  dully.  The  blue 
eyes  meet  the  dark  ones  unwaveringly. 

"I  know  that  I  believe  in  your  innocence  and  that  I 
trust  you,"  is  the  quiet  response.  "Listen,  he  is  speaking 
again."  They  bend  their  heads  to  catch  the  sinking 
man's  last  words. 

"In  my — coat — papers,"  gasps  Mr.  Felton,  with  his 
fast-glazing  eyes  fixed  on  Van  Zandt.  "They — will — 
clear — your — name,"  he  finishes  and  sinks  back,  exhaust 
ed  by  his  effort. 

"Cyrus  Felton,"  says  Van  Zandt,  gravely,  "if  any  for 
giveness  of  mine  will  afford  you  an  iota  of  comfort  on 
your  journey  to  the  other  world,  it  is  yours." 

The  dying  man  acknowledges  the  absolution  with  a 
glance.  An  instant  later  his  spirit  passes  to  his  Maker, 
to  be  judged  by  his  deeds  in  this  world  of  sorrow  and  sin, 
of  hope  and  happiness. 


Again  the  Cafe  de  Almendras.    The  boisterous  troop 
ers  are  gone  and  in  their  place  a  dozen  or  so  quiet- 


314  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

appearing  men  in  civilian  dress  are  grouped  about  the 
tables,  drinking  little  and  talking  less. 

It  has  been  a  noisy  day,  the  patron  tells  a  tall  man 
with  black  eyes  and  fierce  mustachios,  who  lounges  in 
the  doorway  and  sweeps  the  street  with  his  keen  gaze. 

But  the  tall  man  heeds  not  the  chatter  of  the  patron ; 
his  gaze  is  fixed  curiously  vtpon  an  approaching  soldier, 
who  bears  across  his  shoulder  the  limp  form  of  a  man 
in  the  uniform  of  a  Spanish  captain.  The  face  of  the 
latter  is  hidden. 

Barker  brushes  by  into  the  cafe  with  the  body  of 
Ralph  Felton,  and  meets  the  contemptuous  glance  of  the 
tall  man  with  a  searching  look  that  the  latter  does  not 
fancy. 

"Ho,  there,  patron!  A  room  and  a  doctor  at  once!" 
orders  the  detective,  and  he  gives  the  patron  a  handful  of 
coin  and  effectually  silences  his  grumbling  protest  about 
making  a  hospital  of  the  place. 

Having  deposited  his  burden  above  stairs,  Barker  re 
turns  to  the  drinking-room  and  astonishes  the  tall  man 
with  the  black  eyes  by  tapping  him  on  the  shoulder  and 
remarking: 

"I  think  I  have  met  you  before." 

"The  mischief  you  have!"  is  the  curt  rejoinder. 

"Now  I  am  sure  of  it,"  grins  Barker.  "Your  voice 
has  not  changed,  but  your  mustachios  do  not  fit  you. 
Pardon  me,"  he  adds,  just  in  season  to  prevent  an  out 
break,  "I  am  indebted  to  you  for  this  slash/'  indicating 
the  scar  across  his  forehead,  "but  I  do  not  lay  up  any 
hard  feelings.  I'll  call  it  quits  if  you  will  lend  some 
friends  of  mine  a  helping  hand.  I  have  got  my  hands 
full  upstairs.  Listen."  Barker  briefly  recounts  the  epi 
sodes  narrated  in  the  previous  chapter. 

As  the  tall  man  listens  his  brow  grows  black  as  night, 
and  when  the  tale  is  finished  his  voice  rings  through 
the  cafe  in  a  sharp  command : 

"Haste,  my  comrades!  To  the  American  consul's  to 
save  my  friends!" 

The  quiet-appearing  civilians  about  the  tables  leap  to 
their  feet  as  one  man,  and,  leaving  the  unpaid  patron 


A  SIGNAL  FROM  MACEDONIA.  315 

standing  in  hopeless  astonishment  amid  the  ruins  of 
the  glassware  he  has  dropped,  the  little  band  sweeps  out 
of  the  cafe. 

"There  will  be  music  at  the  consul's  this  afternoon,  un 
less  I  am  greatly  mistaken,"  mutters  Barker,  as  he  looks 
down  the  dust-veiled  road.  "And  now  for  my  patient 
If  he  dies  with  his  secret  unrevealed  I'll  never  forgive 
him!" 


CHAPTER  LV. 

A   SIGNAL  FROM  MACEDONIA. 

Van  Zandt  and  Louise  stand,  hand  in  hand,  gazing 
sorrowfully  upon  all  that  is  mortal  of  Cyrus  Felton.  A 
crash  is  heard  below,  as  the  front  door  is  burst  from  its 
hinges. 

Van  Zandt  leaps  to  the  head  of  the  staircase  just  as  the 
feet  of  a  brace  of  ruffians  are  on  the  lower  step.  Twice 
cracks  his  revolver  and  his  aim  is  true.  One  of  the 
Spaniards  falls  and  the  second  drops  back  with  a  cry  of 
pain.  Then,  as  Van  Zandt  throws  himself  to  one  side, 
there  is  a  flash  of  fire  below,  and  the  bullets  whistle  harm 
lessly  by. 

As  he  judges,  there  is  no  immediate  second  rush  by  the 
attacking  party,  so  he  proceeds  to  examine  his  surround 
ings  and  the  result  is  far  from  satisfactory.  There  is  no 
serious  danger  of  the  besiegers  attempting  to  carry  the 
staircase  by  storm.  The  Spaniard  is  not  lacking  in  cour 
age,  but  it  requires  a  considerable  amount  of  sand  to 
lead  the  way  to  certain  death.  But  the  room  to  which 
they  have  retreated  was  not  built  for  a  fortress  and  he 
realizes  that  the  end  must  come  when  the  enemy  will 
gain  access  to  the  second  floor — by  the  veranda  or  by  the 
rear  entrance  to  the  building. 

Suddenly  his  eyes  rest  upon  a  ladder  at  the  other  end 
of  the  short  hallway. 


316  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Quick!"  he  whispers  to  Louise,  as  he  points  the  way 
to  temporary  safety. 

A  minute  later  and  they  are  on  the  roof  of  the  building, 
the  ladder  pulled  up,  and  the  scuttle  fastened  down. 
Over  them  floats,  from  the  flagstaff,  the  glorious  banner 
of  their  native  land,  and  above  that  bends  a  sky  of  heav 
en's  deepest  blue. 

"Fairly  outwitted!"  says  Van  Zandt.  Suddenly  he  feels 
a  weakness  come  over  him  and  he  sinks  upon  the  sun 
baked  roof.  Then  for  the  first  time  Louise  notices  that 
he  is  wounded,  and  she  kneels  beside  him  with  a  very 
white  face. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  reassures  her.  With  her  assistance 
he  removes  his  coat,  tears  open  the  left  sleeve  of  his  shirt 
and  discloses  a  bullet  hole  in  the  fleshy  part  of  the  arm. 
It  looks  more  serious  than  it  really  is  and  Louise  feels  an 
inclination  to  faint.  But  she  resists  it  and  proceeds  to 
bind  up  the  still  bleeding  wound  with  strips  torn  from  her 
own  silken  petticoat.  The  golden  head  is  very  close  to 
the  brown  one,  and  as  the  fair  surgeon  bends  to  tie  a 
knot,  the  soft  sweep  of  her  hair  steals  away  all  of  Van 
Zandt's  well-guarded  reserve,  and  his  right  arm  encircles 
her  in  a  passionate  embrace. 

"I  love  you!    I  love  you!"  he  whispers. 

And  Miss  Hathaway,  being  a  sensible  young  woman, 
who  knows  what  she  wants,  does  not  remark  upon  the 
"suddenness"  of  the  declaration  of  love,  but  presses  her 
red  lips  to  his  and  tells  Phillip  that  she  has  loved  him 
ever  since  she  knew  him. 

But  the  lovers  are  brought  back  to  earth  by  a  chorus 
of  yells  and  picturesque  profanity  sufficient  to  supply  the 
captain  of  a  whaling  bark  for  an  entire  voyage. 

"They  have  discovered  our  retreat,"  whispers  Van 
Zandt,  as  he  lifts  the  scuttle  and  listens  to  the  tumult  be 
low.  But  he  drops  it  as  a  bullet  crashes  through  a  few 
inches  from  his  head,  and  moves  out  of  such  dangerous 
range.  Then,  as  his  eyes  rest  upon  the  flag  above  him  an 
idea  seizes  him — a  veritable  inspiration.  He  steps  to  the 
flag-staff,  detaches  the  halyards  and  the  stars  and  stripes 
come  fluttering  down  to  his  feet. 


A   SIGNAL   FROM   MACEDONIA.  317 

"What  are  you  doing  with  the  flag?"  asks  Louise. 

"Giving  utterance  to  the  old  Macedonian  cry,"  he  calls 
back,  and  up  goes  old  glory  again,  this  time  with  the 
union  jack  down.  "Pray  that  my  crew  may  see  the 
signal/'  he  adds,  fervently.  And  Providence  assists  his 
effort,  for  a  puff  of  wind  streams  the  flag  straight  out 
upon  the  breeze. 

Capt.  Beals  is  on  the  bridge  of  the  Semiramis  at  this 
moment,  looking  toward  the  shore,  and  his  quriosity  is 
excited. 

He  sweeps  the  roof  top  with  one  glance  through  his 
powerful  glance  and  then  issues  a  command  that  echoes 
to  the  farthest  corners  of  the  Semiramis. 

A  few  moments  later  Van  Zandt  sees  two  boats  cut 
shoreward  through  the  blue  waters  of  the  bay  as  fast  as 
muscle  can  send  them. 

"Thank  heaven!"  he  exclaims,  as  his  heart  bounds 
within  him,  and  he  proceeds  to  hug  Louise  in  a  manner 
that  vastly  entertains  Capt.  Beals,  who  is  still  an  inter 
ested  though  distant  spectator.  And  if  the  bluff  old  sea 
dog  could  have  made  himself  heard  he  would  have  shout 
ed  a  warning,  for  he  discerns  what  Van  Zandt  cannot 
see — a  ladder  placed  against  the  side  wall  of  the  consul's 
house  and  three  men  ascending  it,  while  back  a  short  dis 
tance,  with  carbines  raised,  stand  the  rest  of  the  scoun 
drelly  horde. 

The  attack  bids  fair  to  be  successful,  but  suddenly  rings 
out  the  cry  of  "Santiago !"  and  the  little  band  of  patriots 
from  the  Cafe  de  Almendras  dashes  upon  the  scene. 

The  Spaniards  now  have  all  the  righting  they  can 
attend  to.  Van  Zandt  and  Louise  watch  from  the  roof 
top  the  progress  of  the  battle  royal.  The  fight  is  won. 
No  quarter  is  given,  and  those  of  the  Spaniards  who  have 
the  ability  to  flee  are  in  full  retreat,  and  as  they  disappear 
down  the  beach  they  shout: 

"El  Terredo!   El  Terredo!'' 

Van  Zandt  sees  a  strange  transformation  in  the  ap 
pearance  of  the  leader  of  the  rescuing  party.  During  a 
hand-to-hand  struggle  with  one  of  the  troopers  his  fierce 
mustachios  have  been  knocked  off,  and  it  is  a  handsome, 


318  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

beardless  youth,  with  flashing  black  eyes,  who  looks 
about  him  and  remarks:  "Well,  my  merry  men,  the  vic 
tory  is  ours,  but  where  are  the  Americans?" 

"Coming,"  sings  out  Van  Zandt,  from  the  upper  air. 
"We  will  be  with  you  in  a  minute."  And  as  he  turns  to 
Louise  that  young  lady  proceeds  to  faint  in  his  arms. 
It  is  a  logical  reaction  from  the  strain  which  she  has 
borne  with  wonderful  fortitude. 

By  this  time  the  boats  from  the  Semiramis  have  ar 
rived,  and  in  them  enough  fighting  Yankees  to  handle 
twice  their  number  of  Spanish  soldiery.  A  ladder 
is  placed  against  the  consul's  house  and  the  besieged 
are  assisted  to  earth,  one  unconscious  and  the  other  with 
an  arm  tied  up. 

While  revivifying  operations  are  under  way  Van  Zandt 
hears  a  startled  exclamation  at  his  elbow.  It  comes  from 
El  Terredo,  who  is  gazing  upon  the  marble  countenance 
of  Miss  Hathaway  with  astonished  and  troubled  eyes. 

Without  replying  to  Van  Zandt's  questioning  look,  El 
Terredo  picks  up  his  mustachios  from  the  sand  and  again 
affixes  them  to  his  face.  Then  he  turns  calmly  to  Van 
Zandt. 

"The  third  of  your  party?  I  was  told  there  was  an  old 
gentleman.'' 

"He  is  dead.  Killed  at  the  first  fire,"  Van  Zandt  tells 
him,  and  he  leads  the  way  into  the  house. 

As  the  two  men  look  upon  the  body,  which  has  not 
been  disturbed  by  the  troopers,  El  Terredo  shudders, 
and  murmurs:  "My  God,  what  does  all  this  mean?" 

"It  means  much  to  me,"  replies  Van  Zandt,  grave 
ly,  as  he  takes  from  the  dead  man's  person  a  packet  of 
papers. 

Without  speaking  El  Terredo  steps  to  the  sofa  and  as 
sists  Van  Zandt  to  bear  the  remains  from  the  house. 

The  body  is  laid  in  the  bow  of  one  of  the  boats,  rever 
ently  covered,  and  preparations  are  made  for  the  return 
to  the  Semiramis.  When  all  but  himself  and  the  rescu 
ing  party  from  the  cafe  have  embarked  Van  Zandt  turns 
to  El  Terredo,  who,  with  folded  arms,  is  gazing  abstract- 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  SEMIRAMIS.  319 

edly  toward  the  law-and-order  deserted  city.  "You  are 
going  with  us,  are  you  not?"  he  asks. 

"No;  I  shall  remain  here." 

"Your  safety  lies  with  yonder  yacht." 

"Safety?  Ah,  senor,  somewhere  on  this  isle  is  one 
dearer  to  me  than  personal  security."  And  the  young 
man  turns  away  to  hide  his  emotion. 

"But  you  can  gain  nothing  by  remaining  here  now. 
The  survivors  of  the  late  scrimmage  have  recognized 
you  and  in  half  an  hour  the  whole  town  will  be  at  your 
heels.  Aboard  my  yacht  you  will  be  safe  and  I  will  gladly 
land  you  at  any  point  on  the  island  you  may  designate. 
Besides,  the  papers " 

"Say  no  more,  senor,''  exclaims  El  Terredo,  extending 
his  hand.  "I  accept  your  generous  offer.'' 

Dismissing  his  faithful  followers,  with  the  assurance 
that  he  will  be  with  them  again  ere  many  days,  the  revo 
lutionary  leader  steps  into  one  of  the  waiting  boats. 

As  they  are  about  to  push  off  a  soldier  whose  horse 
is  flecked  with  foam  comes  dashing  down  the  beach,  and 
as  he  leaps  from  his  well-nigh  broken  steed,  he  calls  out 
cheerily: 

"Got  room  for  one  more?" 

"Ah!  My  friend  of  the  cafe,"  cries  Van  Zandt.  "You 
are  very  welcome,  senor." 

"And  just  in  time,"  remarks  John  Barker,  detective,  as 
with  a  hearty  thwack  he  sends  his  horse  riderless  down 
the  beach  and  clambers  into  the  boat. 


CHAPTER  LVL 

THE    FATE    OF    THE    SEMIRAMIS. 

"And  now,  what?" 

The  boats  have  reached  the  Semiramis.  Louise  Hath 
away  has  been  tenderly  assisted  to  the  deck  by  Van 
Zandt,  followed  by  Navarro  and  Barker,  and  the  dead 


320  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

form  of  Cyrus  Felton  has  been  reverently  conveyed 
aboard. 

A  sort  of  council  of  war  is  being  held  on  the  quarter 
deck  of  the  yacht,  participated  in  by  Van  Zandt,  Navarro 
and  Capt.  Beals.  The  master  of  the  Semiramis  looks 
inquiringly  at  the  insurgent  leader  as  he  utters  the  words 
quoted  above. 

"For  me  personally  there  is  but  one  course,"  replies 
Navarro.  "I  must  land  somewhere  in  the  night  and  make 
my  way  to  Gen.  Masso's  camp.  That  will  not  be  a  diffi 
cult  matter.  It  is  your  own  situation  that  I  am  consider 
ing.  The  American  man-of-war,  is  she  still  in  the  har 
bor?" 

Capt.  Beals  shakes  his  head.  "She  sailed  an  hour  ago 
for  Key  West,  for  supplies  and  instructions.  She  will 
not  return  for  at  least  two  days.'' 

Navarro's  face  grows  grave.  "Then  you  are  not  safe 
from  molestation  even  in  this  vessel  and  under  that  flag," 
he  says,  pointing  to  the  red,  white  and  blue  floating  from 
the  masthead.  "Without  a  man-of-war  to  protect  you, 
the  Spaniards,  knowing  that  El  Terredo  is  aboard,  will 
search  your  yacht,  possibly  confiscate  her  and  subject  you 
to  no  end  of  annoyance,  even  though  they  should  not 
find  El  Terredo.  They  respect  no  flag,  no  emblem,  no 
rules  of  civilized  nations,  unless  they  are  absolutely  com 
pelled  to  by  superior  force.  You  saw  how  they  treated 
the  American  flag  above  the  consul's  own  residence. 
There  are  now  three  Spanish  gunboats  in  the  harbor. 
Within  the  hour  I  fear  your  yacht  will  be  surrounded.'' 

"Then  there  is  but  one  thing  to  do,"  promptly  replies 
Van  Zandt.  "Capt.  Beals,  have  steam  got  up  at  once 
and  weigh  anchor.  We  will  follow  the  America  to  Key 
West" 

There  is  silence  on  the  quarter-deck  for  a  few  mo 
ments.  Miss  Hathaway  has  retired  to  her  former  state 
room  immediately  upon  setting  foot  upon  the  yacht,  and 
Barker  is  intently  watching  the  shore  from  the  bridge. 
For  the  time  being  Van  Zandt  and  Navarro  are  alone. 
Suddenly  the  former  breaks  the  silence. 

"You  are  not  a  Cuban,"  he  says.    "Why  are  you  en- 


THE   FATE   OF   THE   SEMIRAMIS.  321 

listed  with  the  nondescript  army  of  the  insurrectionists?" 

Navarro  flushes  at  the  word  nondescript,  but  does  not 
reply  at  once.  Finally  he  says  quietly:  "No,  I  am  not 
a  Cuban.  I  am,  like  yourself,  an  American.  But  my 
ancestors  were  Cuban,  back  more  than  six  generations. 
Until  ten  months  ago,"  continues  Navarro,  in  a  less-im 
passioned  tone,  "I  was  a  careless,  happy-go-lucky  Ameri 
can  youth,  without  any  specific  aim  in  life.  But  when  the 
Cuban  insurrection  broke  out,  I  was  consumed  with  an 
overmastering  desire  to  help  free  Cuba  from  the  accursed 
yoke  of  Spain.  I  have  sacrificed  everything  to  that  end, 
and  now  I  am  known  to  the  Spaniards  as  'El  Terredo,' 
the  terror.  I  believe  I  have  been  of  some  service  to  the 
struggling  natives,  and  so  I  shall  continue  until  Cuba  is 
free,  or " 

Navarro  does  not  complete  the  sentence.  While  he 
was  speaking  the  smoke  has  been  pouring  out  of  the 
chimneys  of  the  yacht  in  steadily  increasing  volume,  and 
now  the  clank  of  the  steam  windlass  announces  that  the 
vessel  is  getting  under  way.  Without  replying  to  Navar- 
ro's  words,  Van  Zandt  hastens  below  to  inform  Miss 
Hathaway  of  the  destination  of  the  yacht.  Capt.  Beals 
has  taken  his  station  on  the  bridge  and  the  graceful  vessel 
steams  slowly  toward  the  narrow  entrance  to  the  harber 
of  Santiago. 

Navarro  watches  intently  the  three  Spanish  warships 
by  which  the  Semiramis  must  pass  within  half  a  mile. 
As  the  yacht  draws  nearer,  the  watcher  notes  with  anx 
iety  a  boat  hastily  putting  out  from  the  government 
wharf  and  evidently  making  for  the  flagship  of  the  fleet, 
the  Infanta  Isabel.  He  communicates  his  discovery  to 
Van  Zandt,  who  has  returned  from  below,  with  the  com 
ment:  "They  are  evidently  notifying  the  cruiser  to  have 
her  stop  this  vessel.  Rather  than  that  she  fire  on  the 
yacht  and  endanger  the  lives  of  those  on  board,  including 
the  young  lady,  you  must  surrender  me.  Then  they  may 
permit  you  to  go  unmolested." 

"No  man  leaves  this  ship  for  a  Spanish  prison  or  the 
garrote,"  replies  Van  Zandt,  his  eyes  burning  with  ex 
citement,  "as  long  as  there  is  a  timber  of  her  afloat.  It 


322  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

is  less  than  six  miles  to  the  entrance  to  the  harbor,  and 
once  outside  we  can  snap  our  fingers  at  a  whole  fleet  of 
Spanish  cruisers.  Besides,  with  all  the  various  craft  scat 
tered  about  the  harbor,  they  will  not  dare  to  fire  on  us." 

Navarro  shakes  his  head  skeptically,  but  does  not  re 
ply.  The  boat  has  reached  the  side  of  the  war  vessel. 
The  Semiramis  is  now  nearly  abreast  of  the  latter  and 
distant  less  than  half  a  mile.  Suddenly  a  puff  of  smoke 
rises  from  the  forward  deck  of  the  Spaniard,  followed  by 
the  sharp  crack  of  a  rifle. 

"There!  She  has  signaled  you  to  heave  to,"  remarks 
Navarro.  "As  I  told  you,  you  must  surrender  me." 

"This  is  my  answer,"  replies  the  owner  of  the  Semi 
ramis,  drawing  his  revolver  and  firing  two  shots  in  the  air. 
Then  to  Capt.  Beals  on  the  bridge  he  sings  out:  "Full 
speed  ahead!" 

Smoke  is  now  pouring  from  the  stacks  of  the  warship, 
and  it  is  evident  that  she  is  preparing  to  pursue  the 
American  yacht,  but  she  does  not,  as  Navarro  predicted, 
fire  on  the  latter.  Before  the  cruiser  gets  well  under  way 
the  Semiramis  is  within  four  miles  of  the  channel  that 
marks  the  entrance  to  the  harbor. 

Van  Zandt  smiles  at  Navarro.  "We  will  lead  him  a 
merry  race  if  he  thinks  to  catch  the  Semiramis,"  he  re 
marks.  "This  yacht  can  go  two  miles  to  his  one.  And 
if  he  hasn't  improved  in  his  marksmanship  I  will  risk  his 
guns.  Ah,  there  goes  the  first  one!" 

The  Spaniard  has  succeeded  in  getting  within  range 
of  the  yacht  without  endangering  any  of  the  other  craft, 
and  the  roar  of  his  forward  gun  is  heard  as  Van  Zandt 
speaks. 

"An  eighth  of  a  mile  to  windward,"  observes  the  latter, 
as  he  watches  the  solid  shot  skip  over  the  water.  "He 
can't  race  and  shoot,  too." 

Evidently  the  pursuer  has  come  to  the  same  conclusion, 
for  he  fires  no  more  guns,  but  doggedly  plows  the  placid 
waters  of  the  harbor  after  the  great  black  yacht. 

And  now  the  latter  is  less  than  half  a  mile  from  the 
cleft  in  the  precipitous  coast  line.  Capt.  Beals  has  slowed 


THE    FATE    OF    THE    SEMIRAMIS.  323 

down  the  engines  and  the  yacht  is  picking  her  way  by 
the  reefs  that  guard  the  channel. 

"Ship  ahoy !"  suddenly  rings  out  from  the  lookout  for 
ward.  All  eyes  are  turned  ahead.  A  steamer,  inward 
bound,  has  just  come  into  view  in  the  channel. 

"Permit  me,"  Navarro  takes  the  glasses  and  focuses 
them  upon  the  stranger.  "It  is  the  Spanish  dispatch  boat 
Pizarro,"  he  says.  "When  the  cruiser  recognizes  her  she 
will  doubtless  signal  her  to  intercept  the  yacht,  and  in 
the  narrow  channel  she  can  make  serious  trouble,  I 
fear." 

The  report  of  another  cannon,  followed  by  two  more 
in  quick  succession,  shows  that  the  man-of-war  has  in 
deed  recognized  her  compatriot  almost  as  soon  as  the 
American.  An  answering  gun  from  the  dispatch  boat 
also  shows  that  she  has  heard  and  understands. 

Capt.  Beals  looks  inquiringly  at  Van  Zandt.  "We  must 
continue  straight  on  and  take  our  chances  in  the  channel 
with  that  craft/'  the  latter  says.  Then  to  Navarro:  "Do 
you  know  what  her  armament  is?" 

"Oh,  she  is  not  a  fighting  ship.  She  has  no  arma 
ment,  merely  one  gun  for  saluting  purposes,  and  her 
crew  cannot  number  over  fifty." 

"Then  we  are  all  right.  If  she  gets  in  our  way  she 
must  take  the  consequences." 

But  the  dispatch  boat  evidently  does  not  intend  that 
the  American  shall  pass.  She  has  taken  a  position  in  the 
narrowest  part  of  the  channel  and  lies  stationary,  present 
ing  her  broadside  to  the  oncoming  yacht. 

"Signal  that  we  propose  to  pass  to  port,"  Van  Zandt 
says  to  Capt.  Beals,  "and  if  the  Spaniard  gets  in  our 
course  run  him  down." 

Capt.  Beals  nods  and  a  second  later  the  hoarse  whistle 
of  the  Semiramis  echoes  over  the  waters.  The  signal  is 
answered  with  a  rifle  shot  from  the  Spaniard's  forward 
deck  and  the  dispatch  boat  moves  forward  two  lengths, 
so  that  she  lies  fair  and  square  in  the  announced  course 
of  the  yacht. 

But  there  are  no  signs  of  slackening  on  the  part  of  the 


324  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

latter,  and  her  black  hull  looks  threatening  indeed  to  the 
officers  of  the  dispatch  boat. 

Caramba!  Surely  she  will  not  run  down  the  royal 
vessel!  Yet  it  looks  very  like  it!  But  they  will  not 
dare!  Still — the  Spanish  commander  hesitates  no  longer. 
He  signals  his  vessel  to  back  at  full  speed. 

Too  late! 

The  Pizarro  has  moved  less  than  half  a  length  when 
the  American  yacht  crashes  into  her.  There  is  a  grind 
ing  shock  that  brings  Louise  Hathaway  in  terror  to  the 
deck  of  the  Semiramis,  and  then  the  yacht  continues  on 
her  course,  apparently  unharmed.  Van  Zandt  catches  a 
glimpse  of  a  great  jagged  hole  in  the  bow  of  the  Span 
iard,  into  which  the  water  is  pouring  in  a  cataract;  of 
a  panic-stricken  crew  rushing  frantically  for  the  boats; 
and  then  he  turns  to  Miss  Hathaway.  It  is  nothing,  he 
assures  her  tenderly;  a  slight  collision,  but  the  yacht  is 
all  right  and  perhaps  she  had  better  return  to  her  state 
room  for  the  present.  Later  on — and  Louise  smiles,  a 
little  sadly,  but  permits  Van  Zandt  to  conduct  her  to  the 
saloon. 

Capt.  Beals  is  awaiting  Van  Zandt  as  the  latter  bounds 
up  the  steps  a  minute  later.  "We  are  badly  stove  for 
ward,"  he  reports,  "and  are  making  water  quite  rapidly. 
With  the  steam  pumps  going,  we  may  keep  afloat  three 
or  four  hours,  but  the  yacht  is  doomed." 

Van  Zandt  is  so  startled  at  the  news  that  for  a  moment 
he  is  speechless.  His  eyes  rove  back  to  the  Spanish  war 
ship,  and  then  at  the  nearly  perpendicular  cliffs  by  which 
the  Semiramis  is  steaming. 

He  looks  for  the  dispatch  boat,  but  it  is  not  in  sight. 
"The  Spaniard?"  he  inquires,  mechanically. 

"Gone  to  the  bottom,5'  laconically  replies  the  captain. 

"Then  there  is  no  hope  for  us  but  to  keep  on  and  try 
to  land  by  the  boats  somewhere  on  the  coast,"  Van  Zandt 
says.  "The  Spaniards  will  treat  us  all  as  enemies,  now 
that  we  have  sunk  one  of  their  boats.  How  long  can  we 
keep  up  this  speed?" 

"Perhaps  an  hour,  perhaps  more.  The  water  will  put 
out  the  fires." 


THE    FATE   OP   THE   SEMIRAMIS.  325 

"Well,  have  the  boats  quietly  prepared  and  keep  with 
in  reach  of  land.  Do  you  think  the  Spaniards  will  con 
tinue  the  pursuit?" 

"Undoubtedly.  They  will  stop  only  to  pick  up  the 
crew  of  the  Pizarro,  and  then  will  keep  on  after  us.  If 
there  was  some  little  bay  near  here  where  we  could  beach 
the  yacht,  but  there  isn't." 

The  noble  craft  continues  to  plow  the  waves  and  her 
injured  bow  still  tosses  the  foam  on  either  side,  but  her 
speed  is  sensibly  diminishing.  All  on  board  have  recog 
nized  the  fact  that  the  yacht  is  doomed,  but  there  is  no 
confusion,  no  manifest  anxiety.  The  boats  have  been 
prepared  and  each  member  of  the  crew  has  secured  in 
a  little  package  his  most  valued  possessions.  On  the 
quarter-deck  Van  Zandt,  Navarro,  Barker  and  Louise 
Hathaway  are  silently  watching  the  Spanish  warship. 
The  latter  is  gaining  now,  for  the  Semiramis  is  steadily 
settling. 

Navarro,  his  hat  drawn  over  his  eyes  and  his  coat 
wrapped  about  him  so  that  his  countenance  is  partially 
veiled,  has  carefully  avoided  Louise.  When  she  returns 
to  the  deck  he  walks  over  to  where  John  Barker  is  lean 
ing  against  the  rail  and  remarks  in  Spanish: 

"If  you  do  not  desire  to  be  shot  as  a  deserter  I  should 
advise  you  to  borrow  a  suit  of  clothes  from  our  friend, 
the  owner  of  the  yacht." 

The  detective  starts.  "I  guess  you're  right,"  he  replies 
in  English,  and  turns  to  Van  Zandt.  Five  minutes  later 
he  emerges  from  the  cabin  attired  in  a  fashionable  suit 
of  gray. 

"The  water  is  within  two  inches  of  the  boilers,"  reports 
the  engineer,  and  Van  Zandt  sighs  heavily. 

"Well,"  he  says,  "we  may  as  well  take  to  the  boats. 
Come."  He  leads  Louise  to  the  steamer's  launch. 

"And  he?"  Louise  points  to  where  the  body  of  Cyrus 
Felton  lies,  covered  by  its  winding  sheet  of  canvas. 

"He  will  go  down  with  the  Semiramis.  He  could  have 
no  nobler  tomb." 

Boom!  The  roar  of  the  Spanish  gun  is  the  salute  the 
people  of  the  Semiramis  hear  as  the  boats  pull  away  from 


326  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

the  doomed  yacht.  The  cruiser  is  within  range  and 
though  her  commander  must  be  aware  that  the  Ameri 
can  vessel  is  sinking  he  is  firing  on  her. 

"The  coward!"  grits  Van  Zandt.  "But  the  Semiramis 
will  not  strike  her  flag.  She  sinks  with  the  stars  and 
stripes  flying." 

"Pull  hard!"  shouts  Capt.  Beals.  "Pull  hard!  She's 
going  down!" 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

AN  INTERNATIONAL  EPISODE. 

"Ashley,  we  will  give  you  something  to  write  about," 
remarks  Capt.  Meade,  as  the  America  steams  out  of  the 
harbor  of  Santiago. 

"What's  that,  captain?  A  thrilling  description  of  a 
voyage  from  Santiago  de  Cuba  to  Key  West?" 

The  commander  of  the  cruiser  smiles  good-naturedly. 
"More  excitement  than  that,  and  something  that  will 
cause  the  little  senorita  to  cling  frantically  to  your  arm." 

"Ah,  then,  you  may  open  the  ball  at  once." 

"Not  yet;  not  for  an  hour.  In  short,  we  are  going  to 
burn  some  powder  by  and  by.  A  little  target  practice, 
and  if  you  have  never  seen  anything  of  the  sort  you  will 
be  rather  interested." 

"Confound  his  target  practice,"  Jack  mutters  disgust 
edly,  as  Capt.  Meade  bustles  away.  "The  only  powder- 
burning  I  want  to  see  is  the  shelling  of  the  dingy  old  city 
of  Santiago  by  the  Spanish  fleet." 

But  Ashley's  temporary  annoyance  is  soon  forgotten 
in  the  pleasure  of  assisting  Juanita  up  and  down  the  steep 
ladders,  of  explaining  the  machinery,  the  guns,  the  great 
searchlight  and  the  thousand  and  one  interesting  features 
of  the  cruiser. 

The  target  practice,  he  also  finds,  is  a  decidedly  inter 
esting  affair,  after  all,  which  conclusion  may  have  been 


AN   INTERNATIONAL   EPISODE.  327 

influenced  by  the  manifest  delight  of  his  sweetheart  over 
the  novel  experience. 

But  the  last  gun  is  fired,  the  buoy  mark  is  demolished, 
and,  within  forty-eight  hours,  Capt.  Meade  tells  Jack, 
the  America  will  be  lying  at  anchor  in  the  harbor  of  Key 
West. 

"And  she  will  return  to  Santiago,  when?''  the  corre 
spondent  inquires.  "I  must  be  back  at  the  finish,  if  the 
insurgents  capture  the  city  and  it  is  shelled  by  the  Span 
ish  fleet." 

Capt.  Meade  shakes  his  head.  "That  depends  on  in 
structions  received  at  Key  West.  I  suppose  though,  that 
the  cruiser  would  be  ordered  directly  back  to  Santiago 
after  coaling.'' 

Just  then  the  captain  is  summoned  to  the  bridge,  where 
it  is  evident  that  some  unusual  occurrence  is  engrossing 
the  attention  of  the  officers. 

Jack  observes  that  the  captain  has  his  glass  turned  to 
ward  the  northwest,  and  he  also  looks  in  that  direction. 
Trails  of  black  smoke  low  down  on  the  horizon,  evidently 
from  two  steamers,  are  all  that  reward  his  gaze,  but  he 
notices  that  the  course  of  the  America  has  been  changed 
and  that  her  speed  has  been  materially  accelerated. 

"What  is  in  the  wind?"  he  inquires,  casually,  of  the 
youthful  ensign. 

"That's  just  what  we're  going  to  find  out,"  is  the  reply, 
and  Ashley  follows  Capt.  Meade  to  the  bridge. 

"Nothing  special  that  we  know  of,"  is  that  official's 
response  to  Jack's  query  as  to  the  cause  of  the  change  of 
course.  "Some  stranger,  probably  a  Spanish  gunboat, 
is  in  pursuit  of  another  steamer,  and  as  it  is  not  much  out 
of  our  course  I  concluded  to  run  up  nearer  the  scene." 

The  white  cruiser  is  now  rushing  along  at  a  speed' that 
reminds  Jack  of  his  first  memorable  trip  upon  her,  and 
is  rapidly  reducing  the  cloud  of  smoke  on  the  horizon  to 
the  outlines  of  a  formidable  man-of-war. 

"The  Spanish  cruiser  Infanta  Isabel,"  is  the  conclusion 
of  Capt.  Meade,  after  a  long  and  careful  study  of  the  dis 
tant  steamer.  "But  the  craft  she  is  in  pursuit  of  I  cannot 
quite  make  out.  She  is  a  large  steamship  of  some  sort 


328  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

and  the  Don  is  overhauling  her  hand  over  fist.  We  shall 
be  there  just  in  time  to  see  the  fun." 

The  America's  course  is  converging  toward  that  of 
pursuer  and  pursued.  Capt.  Meade's  keen  eyes  are  alter 
nately  riveted  on  the  Spanish  warship  and  the  unknown 
vessel. 

"If  that  steamship  did  not  set  so  low  in  the  water,"  he 
remarks,  thoughtfully,  "and  was  going  about  two-thirds 
faster,  I  should  say  that  she  was  our  old  friend,  the  big 
black  yacht  Semiramis.  But — great  heaven!  The  steam 
er  is  sinking!  That's  what's  the  matter  with  her !  She  is 
steadily  settling!" 

All  eyes  on  the  cruiser  are  now  directed  toward  the 
crippled  stranger.  She  is,  as  Capt.  Meade  says,  slowly 
sinking  while  yet  the  waters  are  dashing  on  either  side  of 
her  bow  like  mountain  streams. 

"A  game  struggle,  but  all  in  vain,"  is  the  comment  of 
the  captain,  shaking  his  head.  "Probably  the  Spaniard 
hulled  him  below  the  water  line  early  in  the  struggle, 
and  he  has  been  slowly  making  water  ever  since.  He 
can't  last  much  .longer.  The  water  must  be  near  the  fires 
now.  Ah !  I  thought  so !" 

For  the  strange  steamer  has  apparently  lost  headway. 
The  black  smoke  that  a  moment  before  poured  from  her 
chimneys  now  mingles  with  a  white  cloud  of  steam. 

"Her  fires  are  out,"  Capt.  Meade  explains  to  Ashley. 
"She  will  go  down  in  twenty  minutes,  if  she  doesn't  blow 
up  before." 

The  boom  of  a  heavy  cannon  startles  the  watchers  and 
they  turn  quickly  to  the  Spanish  man-of-war.  A  curling 
wreath  of  smoke  from  her  forward  deck  tells  the  origin 
of  the  report,  and  their  eyes  return  to  the  sinking  vessel. 
A  puff  of  wind  lifts  for  a  moment  the  flag  hanging  limp 
at  her  masthead,  as  if  in  mute  defiance  of  the  Spanish 
shot.  Capt.  Meade  starts  as  if  he  had  received  an  electric 
shock. 

"The  American  flag!''  he  thunders,  "and  fired  on  by 
the  Spaniard!"  Then  to  the  executive  officer:  "Signal 
for  the  forced  draught  and  bear  down  on  the  steamer. 
We  will  pick  up  her  boats  and  then  investigate  the  out 
rage  on  the  flag.'' 


AN    INTERNATIONAL   EPISODE.  329 

Another  shot,  and  still  another,  comes  echoing  over 
the  water  from  the  Infanta  Isabel,  her  target  the  fast-fill 
ing  steamer. 

Suddenly  Ashley  is  electrified  by  the  command  in  the 
stentorian  tones  of  Capt.  Meade: 

"Clear  the  ship  for  action!" 

A  second  later  the  trumpet's  harsh  notes  and  the  sharp 
rattle  of  drum,  mingling  with  the  shrill  whistles  and 
rough  voices  of  the  boatswain,  mates  and  the  noisy  clang 
ing  of  the  electric  gongs,  call  the  sturdy  crew  of  the 
America  to  "general  quarters." 

Then,  indeed,  is  the  blood  of  the  newspaper  man 
stirred  by  the  scenes  about  him.  The  decks  throb  with 
the  rush  of  hurrying  feet  as  the  men  hasten  to  their  sta 
tions.  The  gun  crews  are  casting  loose  the  great  guns, 
the  murderous  rapid-fire  cannon  and  the  secondary  bat 
teries.  Some  are  hastily  donning  equipments,  others  fill 
ing  sponge-buckets  and  still  others  stripping  themselves 
of  all  superfluous  clothing,  laying  bare  their  brawny 
forms. 

Hatches  are  covered,  hose  laid  and  pumps  rigged,  lad 
ders  torn  away,  and  decks  turned  topsy-turvy,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye.  Rifles,  cutlasses  and  revolvers  come 
out  from  the  armory  in  quantities  that  amaze  Ashley. 
The  marine  guard  falls  in  and  topmen  are  scrambling 
nimbly  aloft  to  secure  anything  movable  there. 

Down  come  the  rails,  out  come  davits  and  awning 
stanchions — 'everything  movable  is  stowed  away  or  se 
cured.  The  magazines  are  opened  and  the  tackle  rigged 
over  the  ammunition  hatches  ready  to  hoist  shot  and  shell 
for  the  guns. 

"The  grim  panoply  of  war,"  Jack  thinks,  as  he  hastens 
to  conduct  the  wondering  Juanita  below.  Even  here,  he 
observes  to  his  great  surprise,  the  captain's  sacred  cabin 
has  been  invaded  "on  the  jump"  by  the  crews  of  the  after 
guns. 

As  Ashley  returns  to  the  quarter-deck  he  notes  that 
the  America  is  bearing  hard  down  almost  at  right  angles 
on  the  Spanish  warship,  now  distant  less  than  a  mile. 

"Evidently  here  is  an  excellent  opportunity  for  an  in- 


330  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

ternational  episode,"  he  thinks,  as  he  glances  at  the  stern 
face  of  "Fighting  Dave"  Meade  on  the  bridge.  Then 
his  hand  involuntarily  goes  to  his  ears  and  he  catches  at 
the  rail  for  support,  as  the  forward  gun  of  the  American 
cruiser  thunders  forth  and  an  eight-pound  solid  shot 
skims  over  the  waves  across  the  bow  of  the  Spanish 
cruiser. 

Before  he  recovers  from  the  shock  of  the  concussion 
there  is  a  murmured/'She's  going!''  from  the  officers  on 
the  quarter-deck  and  Jack  looks  quickly  in  the  direction 
of  the  sinking  steamer.  But  the  black  hull  has  already 
disappeared  beneath  the  waves  and  he  sees  only  the  flut 
tering  red,  white  and  blue  ere  the  whirling  eddies  reach 
their  eager  arms  for  the  beautiful  emblem. 

The  gun  from  the  America  does  not  have  the  antici 
pated  effect  on  the  Spaniard,  for  he  continues  full  speed 
toward  the  spot  where  the  steamer  sunk.  But  it  has 
evidently  had  effect  in  another  direction.  With  the  aid 
of  his  marine  glasses  Ashley  observes  four  boats,  which 
had  hitherto  escaped  his  notice,  pulling  toward  the  white 
cruiser.  The  purpose  of  the  Spanish  vessel  is  thus  ap 
parent.  She  designs  to  cut  off  the  fleeing  boats  before 
they  may  reach  the  America. 

Again  the  white  cruiser  careens  to  one  side  and  a  sec 
ond  deafening  report,  this  time  the  gun  from  amidship, 
roars  out  in  language  not  to  be  misunderstood  by  the 
on-rushing  Spanish  man-of-war. 

It  is  not  misunderstood. 

There  is  a  rapid  gush  of  escaping  steam,  the  stacks 
cease  to  vomit  forth  their  black  clouds  and  the  Infanta 
Isabel  turns  her  course  and  steams  slowly  toward  the 
America. 

Ashley  watches  curiously  the  flashing  oars  of  the 
coming  boats,  and  when  the  forward  one  is  almost  within 
hail  he  lifts  the  glasses  to  his  eyes  and  scans  her  passen 
gers. 

"Thunder  and  Mars !"  he  exclaims,  "if  there  isn't  John 
Barker  in  the  bow  and — yes,  it  must  be  Louise  Hatha 
way,  Van  Zandt,  and — who  the  devil  is  that  chap  with 
the  ferocious  mustachios?  El  Terredo,  or  I'm  a  sinner!" 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL.  331 

CHAPTER  LVIII. 

THE    END    OF   THE   TRAIL. 

When  the  first  boat  is  alongside  the  America,  Barker 
is  the  first  man  to  clamber  to  the  deck,  and  the  first  indi 
vidual  he  gets  his  eye  on  is  Jack  Ashley. 

"Hello!  Well  met,"  remarks  that  young  man,  extend 
ing  his  hand.  "I  was  expecting  you  any  minute." 

Barker  gives  Jack's  hand  a  perfunctory  clasp  and 
passes  on  with  a  gruff  "Hello!" 

"I  am  not  yet  forgiven.  I  see,"  thinks  Ashley,  as  he 
turns  to  the  rest  of  the  party  coming  aboard.  He  greets 
Miss  Hathaway  warmly  and  Van  Zandt  genially,  and 
grips  Navarro's  hand  with  a  pressure  of  strong  friend 
ship. 

There  is  no  present  opportunity  for  mutual  explana 
tions,  as  a  serious  interruption  is  apparent  in  the  shape 
of  a  boat  that  has  put  out  from  the  Spanish  man-of-war 
and  is  rapidly  approaching  the  America. 

With  a  shade  of  anxiety  the  people  of  the  Semiramis 
await  the  arrival  of  the  boat.  They  note  the  preparations 
to  receive  with  due  honor  the  representative  of  the  In 
fanta  Isabel,  the  marines  drawn  up  in  double  file  beside 
the  gangway,  the  officers  of  the  America  in  position  on 
the  quarter-deck.  But  there  is  no  time  for  speculation  or 
conjecture.  Eight  pairs  of  dripping  oars  are  simulta 
neously  raised,  the  boat  glides  softly  to  the  side  of  the 
cruiser,  and  a  moment  later  the  Spanish  officer  is  bowing 
profoundly  to  the  commander  of  the  America. 

His  excellency,  Admiral  Sanchez  of  his  majesty's  man- 
of-war  Infanta  Isabel,  presents  his  compliments  to  the 
commander  of  the  United  States  cruiser  America  and 
begs  to  say  that  the  passengers,  officers  and  crew  of  the 
steamer  just  sunk,  who  have  sought  asylum  on  the 
American  vessel,  are  rebels,  in  arms  against  his  majesty 
the  king  of  Spain ;  that  their  vessel,  just  sunk,  has  within 
the  last  three  hours  destroyed  the  royal  Spanish  dispatch 


332  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

boat  Pizarro.  Wherefore  his  excellency  respectfully  asks 
that  the  said  officers,  passengers  and  crew  of  the  rebel 
ship  be  delivered  to  the  representative  of  her  majesty's 
ship  Infanta  Isabel  as  prisoners  of  war. 

Captain  Meade  listens  patiently  while  the  Spanish  offi 
cer  delivers  his  message,  his  brow  knitting  slightly  at 
the  reference  to  the  destruction  of  the  dispatch  boat. 
Then  he  turns  to  Captain  Beals: 

"What  have  you  to  say  to  this  statement  and  why  were 
you  flying  the  American  flag,  if  you  were  in  command 
of  an  insurgent  vessel?" 

"We  are  not  insurgents  and  we  did  not  destroy  the 
dispatch  boat,"  is  the  reply.  "The  pleasure  yacht  Semi- 
ramis  of  New  York,  Van  Zandt  owner,  was  in  collision 
with  the  Pizarro  in  the  harbor  of  Santiago.  The  Pizarro 
stood  directly  in  our  course,  notwithstanding  our  signals 
that  we  proposed  to  pass  to  port.  We  should  have  gone 
aground  if  we  had  not  fouled  her.  We  did  not  stop,  as 
the  Semiramis  was  badly  stove  and  subsequently  sunk, 
as  you  have  seen.  Further,  our  officers  and  crew  and  the 
passengers  are  without  exception  American  citizens.  As 
such,  I  appeal  to  the  commander  of  an  American  vessel 
for  protection." 

"And  you  shall  have  it,"  murmurs  Captain  Meade 
under  his  breath.  To  the  Spaniard  he  says:  "Present 
my  compliments  to  his  excellency,  Admiral  Sanchez,  and 
say  that  the  commander  of  the  America  finds  upon  in 
vestigation  that  the  officers  and  crew  of  the  late  steamer 
Semiramis  are  American  citizens,  who  claim'  the  pro 
tection  of  the  American  flag;  that  her  captain  and  offi 
cers  maintain  that  the  destruction  of  the  Pizarro  was  an 
accident  for  which  they  are  in  no  wise  responsible. 
Therefore  I  am  constrained  to  decline  to  grant  the  cour 
teous  request  of  his  excellency." 

The  Spanish  officer  bows  respectfully  and  continues: 
"His  excellency  also  desired  to  convey  to  the  commander 
of  the  United  States  cruiser  America  the  information 
that  among  the  persons  lately  on  board  the  sunken 
steamer  was  one  Cuban  rebel,  denominated  El  Terredo, 
whom  his  excellency  has  every  reason  to  believe  has 


THE    END   OF   THE   TRAIL.  333 

sought  refuge  on  board  this  ship.  He  respectfully  re 
quests  that  said  El  Terredo  be  delivered  to  the  repre 
sentative  of  his  majesty's  ship." 

Captain  Meade's  eye  strays  over  the  little  group,  but 
before  he  can  speak  Navarro  steps  forward  and  says  in 
English:  "I  have  been  designated  as  El  Terredo,  but  I 
am  an  American  citizen." 

"I  can  testify  to  that  statement,"  supplements  Ashley. 

Captain  Meade  waves  his  hand.  "That  is  sufficient. 
Inform  his  excellency  that  all  of  the  persons  picked  up 
in  the  boats  from  the  lost  steamer  are  American  citizens. 
As  such,  I  cannot  surrender  them." 

Again  the  officer  bows,  and  his  errand  performed,  he 
salutes  and  returns  to  the  boat.  What  will  be  the  effect 
of  his  report?  Will  Admiral  Sanchez  resent  with  force 
Captain  Meade's  decision,  or  will  he  gracefully  bow  to 
the  inevitable?  The  latter  apparently,  for  a  few  moments 
after  the  officer  ascends  the  side  of  the  man-of-war  the 
Spanish  flag  is  dipped  in  salute  to  the  America  and  the 
Infanta  Isabel  steams  slowly  back  in  the  direction  of 
Santiago. 

"Again  is  Providence  on  the  side  of  the  heaviest  guns," 
murmurs  Ashley,  as  he  walks  over  to  where  Barker  is 
leaning  against  the  rail,  and  claps  him  on  the  back. 
"John,  I  am  powerful  glad  to  see  you,"  he  declares 
heartily. 

"I  don't  know  whether  I  can  say  the  same  or  not," 
rejoins  the  detective,  sulkily.  "For  a  man  whose  infernal 
meddling  with  affairs  that  did  not  concern  him  nearly 
cost  me  my  life,  you  appear  pretty  cool  and  uncon 
cerned." 

"My  dear  friend,"  says  Ashley,  "if  I  had  not  been  at 
Jibana  half  a  dozen  days  ago  you  would  never  have 
forgiven  yourself  for  the  part  you  played  as  a  soldier  of 
Castile.  Do  you  know  who  Don  Carlos  was?" 

"I  know  he,  or  she,  was  a  woman." 

"Oh,  you  do?" 

"Yes;  and  if  you  had  shown  yourself  after  the  scrim 
mage,  instead  of  sneaking  off  to  Santiago,  I  might  have 
told  you  of  my  discovery." 


334  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"Ungrateful  wretch!"  cries  Ashley  in  mock  reproach. 
"I  admit  that  I  got  you  into  the  scrape,  but  I  also  got 
you  out  of  it.  The  fiery  El  Terredo  would  have  strung 
you  to  a  telegraph  pole  had  I  not  begged  for  your  life 
and  liberty.  Yes;  Don  Carlos  was  a  woman,  and  she 
was  Helen  Hathaway." 

"Then  El  Terredo?"  marvels  the  detective,  who  is  be 
ginning  to  see  daylight. 

"Was  Derrick  Ames,  of  course.  Anyone  except  a  de 
tective  would  have  discovered  that  long  ago." 

"Indeed/'  retorts  Barker.    "When  did  you  find  it  out?" 

"Early  this  morning/'  laughs  Ashley.  "But  let  us  be 
serious.  Where  are  the  Feltons,  father  and  son?" 

"One  dead,  and  the  other  perhaps  so,"  replies  Barker, 
and  he  tells  Ashley  the  story  of  an  exciting  day  at  San 
tiago. 

"It  must  be  done,"  the  detective  is  saying,  concluding 
his  narrative.  "Your  sympathies  naturally  stand  in  the 
way,  so  I  will  relieve  you  of  all  active  participation  in 
the  affair.  All  you  will  have  to  do  is  to  be  a  silent  wit 
ness.  One  thing  you  must  do,  though.  You  must  see 
Mrs.  Ames  and  have  her  pledge  that  she  will  not  let 
her  husband  know  that  she  has  told  you  her  story.  I 
must  handle  the  affair  gently,  as  Ames  is  as  flashy  as 
gunpowder.  You  will  see  Helen,  then?" 

"Yes;  I  will  fix  it  immediately.  When  do  you  occupy 
the  center  of  the  stage?" 

"To-morrow.    I  will  let  you  know  in  due  season." 

"All  right,  old  chap.  I  will  be  glad  when  it  is  all  over. 
So  long." 

There  are  many  happy  hearts  on  the  America  this 
night.  The  meeting  between  the  sisters,  Helen  and 
Louise,  was  a  dramatic  one,  and  after  affectionate  confi 
dences  had  been  exchanged  each  sought  the  man  she 
loved  best. 

But  a  shadow  of  sadness  hovers  about  the  four  as  they 
sit  on  the  quarter-deck  and  watch  the  big  white  moon 
rise  out  of  the  sea.  Now  that  all  the  excitement  is  over 
Van  Zandt  has  dropped  back  into  his  old  reserve,  and 
the  consciousness  of  his  odd  relations  to  Louise  Hatha- 


THE    END   OF   THE    TRAIL.  335 

way  reverts  to  him  with  unpleasant  keenness.  Ames  is 
moody  and  abstracted  and  only  the  incessant  flow  of 
spirits  of  Jack  Ashley,  who  joins  the  group  with  Juanita, 
keeps  the  little  party  alive. 

But  bedtime  comes  early,  for  everyone  is  thoroughly 
tired,  and  the  party  disperses  with  many  a  fervent  "Good 
night,  and  pleasant  dreams." 

And  as  Van  Zandt  prepares  to  go  below  he  feels  a 
touch  on  his  arm  and  turns  to  see  John  Barker.  "Mr. 
Van  Zandt,  will  you  grant  me  a  few  minutes  before  you 
retire?''  requests  the  detective. 

"Certainly,"  is  the  reply.    "Come  to  my  stateroom." 

Ashley  rises  early  the  next  morning  and  as  he  smokes 
his  after-breakfast  cigar  Barker  joins  him. 

"I  shall  want  you  at  ten  o'clock,  promptly,"  says  the 
detective.  "Meet  me  in  the  private  cabin,  or  whatever 
it  is  called  on  shipboard.  I  have  secured  exclusive  use 
of  it  for  an  hour." 

"Very  well,"  replies  Jack,  abstractedly. 

Promptly  at  ten,  Ashley  repairs  below,  and  as  he  enters 
the  cabin  he  finds  Ames  and  Van  Zandt  there.  They 
look  at  him  questioningly,  but  before  he  has  opportunity 
to  say  more  than  "Good-morning,"  Barker  enters,  closes 
the  door  and  locks  it. 

Ames  flushes  angrily.  "So,''  he  says,  "it  is  at  your 
request  that  I  am  here?" 

"It  is,"  replies  the  detective,  calmly. 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  inviting  me  to  this  place 
and  locking  the  door  upon  me?'' 

"I  simply  do  not  wish  to  be  disturbed,"  is  Barker's 
unruffled  response.  "The  cruiser  America  is  now  United 
States  territory.  I  have  business  with  you,  Mr.  Ames. 
Gentlemen,  will  you  not  be  seated?" 


336  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

CHAPTER  LIX. 

"WRITTEN  BY   THE    HAND   OF   FATE." 

"You  are  a  detective,"  murmurs  Derrick  Ames,  as  he 
drops  back  into  his  chair. 

"I  am,"  answers  Barker.  "For  nearly  a  year  I  have 
been  on  the  track  of  the  murderer  of  Roger  Hathaway, 
being  ably  seconded  in  my  quest  by  my  friend  Jack 
Ashley.  The  trail  has  been  a  tangled  one,  and  has  wound 
under  the  flags  of  three  countries,  but  for  the  past  fort 
night  the  end  has  been  clearly  in  view.  By  a  remarkable 
combination  of  circumstances  affairs  have  been  so  pre 
cipitated  that  to-day  nearly  all  the  living  characters  in  the 
Raymond  drama  are  upon  this  vessel,  the  United  States 
cruiser  America.  My  work  is  done.  I  have  only  my 
story  to  tell.  I  shall  begin,  Mr.  Ames,  by  asking  you  a 
few  questions,"  resumes  Barker. 

"Well?"  queries  the  object  of  his  remarks. 

"At  what  hour  did  you  enter  the  Raymond  National 
Bank  on  the  evening  of  Memorial  Day  of  last  year?" 

"I  cannot  say  exactly.  I  judge  that  it  was  in  the  vicin 
ity  of  7:45." 

"Will  you  be  good  enough  to  state  what  took  place 
there  between  you  and  Roger  Hathaway?" 

Ames  scans  the  detective's  face  keenly  for  a  moment, 
then  replies  to  Barker  in  deliberate  tones: 

"I  went  to  the  bank  to  ask  Mr.  Hathaway's  consent 
that  his  daughter  Helen  might  become  my  wife.  I  was 
confident  that  my  errand  was  useless,  as  he  had  twice 
before  scorned  my  suit.  Helen  and  I  had  been  idling 
all  the  afternoon  on  the  hillside  below  the  town.  As 
evening  drew  on  I  left  her  at  the  bars  and  went  to  the 
bank,  as  she  stated  that  she  had  understood  her  father 
to  say  that  he  should  spend  the  evening  at  work  upon  his 
books.  It  being  Memorial  Day  the  streets  were  deserted, 
and,  barring  one  acquaintance,  a  chap  named  Sam  Brock- 
way,  I  did  not  meet  a  person  on  my  walk  up  the  main 


"WRITTEN   BY   THE   HAND   OP   FATE."  337 

thoroughfare.  As  I  crossed  the  bridge  I  saw  Mr.  Hath 
away  standing  on  the  steps  of  the  bank,  delivering  a  note 
to  a  boy,  and  when  he  re-entered  the  building  I  followed 
him. 

"  'What  do  you  want?'  he  demanded,  almost  fiercely. 
I  told  him,  and  he  broke  into  a  torrent  of  abuse.  Nat 
urally  hot-tempered,  I  answered  his  railings  in  kind,  and 
I  know  not  what  might  have  happened  had  not  Mr. 
Hathaway  suddenly  ended  the  dispute  by  seizing  me  by 
the  shoulder  and  pushing  me  through  the  bank  door  to 
the  street,  threatening,  as  he  did  so,  to  have  the  law  on 
me  if  I  continued  my  attentions  to  his  daughter.  Through 
the  glass  panel  in  the  door  I  watched  him  walk  rapidly 
away  in  the  darkness  of  the  interior;  saw  him  as  for  an 
instant  his  form  passed  into  the  lighted  office  in  the  rear 
of  the  bank.  Then  the  door  to  that  room  closed.  I 
never  saw  Roger  Hathaway  again." 

"That  is  sufficient,"  says  Barker,  as  Ames  pauses. 
"Your  further  progress  up  to  to-day  is  known  to  me." 

"Indeed?" 

"Yes.  And  I  may  say  that  from  the  outset  neither 
Mr.  Ashley  nor  myself  believed  you  guilty  of  the  murder 
of  Roger  Hathaway.  At  the  most,  we  considered  that 
you  might  have  been  a  witness  to  the  tragedy.  But  your 
testimony  is  the  last  link  in  the  chain.  I  am  now  pre 
pared,  gentlemen,  to  relate  what  in  all  human  probability 
happened  in  Raymond  on  the  evening  of  Memorial  Day 
last  year." 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Barker,''  Van  Zandt  breaks  in, 
abruptly.  "I  regret  to  tell  you  that  the  trail  which  you 
have  so  patiently  followed  has  led  you  to  what  I  should 
judge,  from  your  preliminary  remarks,  to  be  a  false  con 
clusion." 

"What!''  cries  the  detective,  starting  from  his  chair. 

"You  think  Cyrus  Felton  killed  Roger  Hathaway.  So 
did  I  once.  We  were  wrong.  If  Cyrus  Felton  was  re 
sponsible  for  Hathaway's  death  it  was  only  indirectly, 
and  the  Raymond  tragedy  was  the  cause  of  more  misery 
to  him  than  any  human  being  should  be  compelled  to 
bear." 


338  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

Barker  is  too  astounded  to  reply  for  an  instant,  and 
Ames  and  Ashley  stare  questioningly  at  Van  Zandt. 

"Let  me  relate  briefly  that  much  of  my  story  which 
bears  directly  upon  the  tragic  events  in  Raymond,"  says 
Van  Zandt,  quietly. 

"On  the  afternoon  of  Memorial  day  of  last  year  I  was 
released  from  the  State  prison  at  Windsor,  Vermont, 
after  serving  two  of  a  three  years'  sentence  for  forgery, 
which,  in  reality,  was  committed  by  Ralph  Felton.  I 
took  the  afternoon  train  for  Raymond,  arriving  there  at 
7:45.  I  went  directly  to  Cyrus  Felton's  residence,  and 
reached  it  at  7:55.  As  I  was  about  to  ascend  the  porch 
I  heard  footsteps  behind  me,  and,  thinking  they  might 
be  those  of  the  man  I  sought,  I  stepped  into  the  shadow 
of  the  porch.  The  new  arrival  had  apparently  called  to 
see  Felton  on  business.  I  heard  the  housemaid  tell  the 
visitor  that  Felton  was  not  at  home;  that  he  might  be 
at  his  office  in  the  bank  building.  As  the  man  walked 
away  I  followed  leisurely. 

"When  I  reached  the  entrance  of  the  bank  building  a 
man,  presumably  the  caller  at  Felton's,  came  down  the 
stairs  and  walked  down  the  street.  Then  I  went  up  the 
stairs  and  proceeded  down  the  corridor  until  I  reached 
a  door  with  Felton's  name  upon  it.  But  the  door  was 
locked  and  the  office  was  dark.  As  I  retraced  my  steps 
and  stood  again  at  the  entrance  of  the  block  a  man 
passed  by  hurriedly,  ascended  the  steps  to  the  bank, 
opened  the  door  and  went  in. 

"I  remained  where  I  was  for  five  minutes,  and  then 
walked  to  the  bank  door  and  glanced  through  the  glass 
panel.  The  interior  was  dark,  save  for  a  ray  of  light 
that  issued  through  the  partly  opened  door  to  the  cash 
ier's  private  office.  Perhaps  Felton  is  within,  I  thought, 
and  pushing  open  the  front  door,  which  was  ajar,  I 
walked  softly  toward  the  shaft  of  light  that  slanted  across 
the  bank  floor. 

"What  my  errand  to  Felton  was,  gentlemen,  it  is  not 
necessary  for  me  to  now  state.  Enough  to  say  that  when 
I  threw  open  the  door  to  the  cashier's  office  I  looked 
upon  a  sight  that  froze  the  blood  in  my  veins. 


"WRITTEN    BY    THE    HAND   OP   FATE."  339 

"Lying  upon  the  polished  floor,  which  was  stained 
with  his  life-blood,  was  the  body  of  Roger  Hathaway  t 
and  standing  over  him  was  Cyrus  Felton,  a  revolver 
clenched  in  his  right  hand. 

''When  I  made  my  appearance  upon  the  threshold  of 
the  office  Felton  turned  his  head  and  our  eyes  met  for 
an  instant  that  must  to  each  have  seemed  an  age.  Then 
I  closed  the  door,  and  a  moment  later  stood  at  the  en 
trance  of  the  bank,  gasping  for  air.  Can  you  not  imagine 
the  horror  in  my  soul?  My  one  impulse  was  to  flee  from 
the  fearful  scene.  I  had  looked,  as  I  thought,  into  the 
face  of  Roger  Hathaway's  slayer,  and  that  was  the  man 
to  whom,  incidentally  at  least,  I  owed  the  two  past  years 
of  misery.  Falsely  imprisoned  for  one  crime,  might  I 
not  be  accused  of  another  and  greater  one?  All  this  and 
more  flashed  through  my  brain,  and  I  hurried  to  the 
railway  station.  There  I  learned  that  no  train  was  due 
for  hours.  I  staggered  away  from  the  station  and  plunged 
down  the  track  into  the  night. 

"How  I  made  my  way  over  mountain  and  through  for 
est  to  southeastern  Vermont  and  rode  to  New  York  on 
the  trucks  of  a  freight  car;  how  I  read  in  a  New  York 
paper  of  the  crime  that  startled  Vermont  and  of  my  sup 
posed  connection  with  the  affair;  how  in  that  same  paper 
I  saw  a  personal  advertising  that  if  Phillip  Van  Zandt, 
who  left  Montana  over  two  years  ago,  would  communi 
cate  with  Ezra  Smith,  lawyer  of  Butte,  Montana,  he 
would  learn  of  something  to  his  advantage;  how  I,  being 
the  much  wanted  Van  Zandt,  proceeded  to  Montana  and 
discovered  that  I  was  sole  heir  to  the  immense  fortune 
of  my  uncle,  a  silver  king  in  that  State,  from  whom  I  had 
foolishly  parted  in  anger  two  years  before — all  this  and 
more  I  will  relate  at  another  time,  gentlemen,  if  you  care 
to  listen. 

"Not  until  late  last  night,"  continues  Van  Zandt,  "did 
I  have  the  opportunity  of  examining  the  papers  given  in 
my  possession  by  Cyrus  Felton  just  before  he  died  in  the 
consul's  residence  at  Santiago." 

As  he  speaks  Van  Zandt  takes  from  his  pocket  a 
packet  of  papers,  selects  one  of  them  and  tosses  it  across 


340  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

the  table  to  Barker.     "Read  that,"  he  says.    "Read  it 
aloud." 

The  detective  unfolds  the  document  and  reads: 

"Santiago  de  Cuba,  April  15.— This  is  written  by  the  hand 
of  fate.  I  shall  not  live  to  see  to-morrow's  sun  rise.  I  know 
it.  The  presentiment  of  my  end  is  so  irresistible  that  no  effort 
of  will  can  shake  it  off.  And  I  am  glad  that  it  is  so.  I  could 
not  endure  another  day  such  as  this  has  been.  I  should  go 
mad. 

"To-day  I  saw  the  detective.  I  have  felt  that  for  months 
he  has  been  pursuing  me.  And  I  have  looked  again  into  the 
eyes,  the  glittering,  pitiless  eyes,  that  stared  at  me  nearly  a 
year  ago  across  the  corpse  of  Roger  Hathaway — the  eyes  of 
the  man  whom,  to  shield  my  son,  I  cruelly  wronged.  From 
the  hour,  a  month  or  more  ago,  that  I  met  Phillip  Van  Zandt 
I  feared  him.  A  nameless  dread  took  possession  of  me.  To 
day  I  recognized  him  and  I  read  hatred,  contempt  and  menace 
in  his  eyes.  He  thinks  I  killed  Roger  Hathaway,  and  what 
manner  of  vengeance  he  has  in  store  I  know  not. 

"But  Roger  Hathaway  killed  himself.  Together  we  wrecked 
the  Raymond  National  Bank.  It  was  the  old  story  of  unfor 
tunate  investments,  and  the  blame  was  chiefly  mine.  But  when 
the  crash  was  imminent  Hathaway  proved  the  hero  and  I 
the  coward.  He  killed  himself  and  saved  both  his  name  and 
mine.  And  yet  with  that  bullet  he  put  an  end  to  all  his  troubles, 
while  I — I  have  suffered  for  months  the  tortures  of  the  damned. 

"With  this  I  inclose  his  letter,  which  he  left  on  his  desk 
for  me  the  evening  of  Memorial  Day.  It  has  been  on  my  person 
since  that  fatal  night,  and  it  has  seared  my  very  soul.  I  have 
not  dared  to  destroy  it  or  to  leave  it  where  it  might  be  found, 
for  it  is  at  once  the  proof  of  my  guilt  and  of  my  innocence. 
If  it  becomes  necessary  to  clear 

"Ah,  he  is  coming.  Cyrus  Felton." 

Barker  mechanically  unfolds  the  inclosure,  three  sheets 
of  letter  paper  crumpled  and  worn.  The  stillness  within 
the  cabin  is  deathlike  as  the  detective  reads: 

"Before  your  eyes  rest  upon  these  lines  the  hand  that  pens 
them  will  be  cold  in  death.  I  have  taken  the  only  alternative. 
For  myself  I  care  not,  but  that  the  finger  of  scorn  should 
be  pointed  at  my  defenseless  children;  that  their  young  lives 
should  be  blighted  and  they  shunned  and  avoided  as  lepers 
because  their  father  betrayed  his  trust  and  cruelly  wronged 
his  friends  and  neighbors,  I  cannot  bear  it.  The  banks,  both 
of  them,  are  irretrievably  involved.  The  funds  deposited  by  the 
county  to  pay  the  bonds  have  been  used  to  meet  pressing 
obligations.  The  crash  would  come  to-morrow.  It  cannot 


"WRITTEN    BY    THE    HAND    OF    FATE."  341 

be  staved  off  another  day.  I  have  thought  it  all  out.  For 
the  sake  of  my  children  and  the  name  they  bear  I  am  about 
to  take  my  own  life.  But  they  nor  any  other  living  person 
save  you  must  ever  know  that  I  did  not  die  by  the  hand  of  the 
assassin.  I  have  arranged  that  it  will  appear  as  if  the  bank  has 
been  robbed  and  the  cashier  murdered.  As  I  write  this  room 
bears  evidence  of  a  fearful  struggle.  The  vault  is  open  and 
the  securities  in  confusion.  Thus  will  our  crime  be  hidden 
from  the  eyes  of  all  save  God.  Your  personal  account  over 
drawn  I  have  fixed  by  the  removal  of  pages  from  the  ledger,  so 
that  when  the  examination  of  the  bank's  affairs  is  made  there 
may  be  no  suspicion  of  irregularity  on  your  part  or  mine. 
You  will  be  the  first  to  find  my  lifeless  body.  The  weapon  by 
which  I  die  you  must  secure  and  secrete. 

"And  now,  farewell.  That  the  sacrifice  I  am  about  to  make 
may  not  be  in  vain  I  adjure  you  guard  well  the  secret  of  my 
death.  Care  for  my  children.  Watch  over  them,  cherish 
them.  By  our  hope  of  heaven  and  forgiveness,  by  our  life-long 
friendship,  by  the  bitter  sacrifice  to  which  duty  points  the 
way,  by  all  these  things  I  charge  you,  Cyrus  Felton,  fail  not 
at  the  peril  of  your  good  name  Roger  Hathaway." 

As  Barker  concludes  the  reading  of  the  remarkable 
epistle  each  of  the  four  men  is  busy  with  his  thoughts. 
No  one  offers  any  comment  on  the  message  from  the 
dead.  Finally  Ames  breaks  the  silence. 

"And  Ralph  Felton?"  he  queries,  turning  to  Barker. 

"He  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  death  of 
Roger  Hathaway,"  returns  the  detective.  "He  refused 
to  answer  the  coroner's  question  at  the  inquest  as  to 
where  he  had  spent  his  time  between  7:45  o'clock  and 
8:30  on  the  evening  of  Memorial  Day  because  he  did  not 
wish  his  association  with  Isabel  Winthrop,  or  Harding, 
to  become  known  when  he  had  been  a  suitor  for  the  hand 
of  Helen  Hathaway.  But  that  was  not  his  principal 
reason  for  leaving  Raymond  as  suddenly  as  he  did.  As 
bookkeeper  of  the  savings  bank  he  had  embezzled  a 
portion  of  the  funds — not  a  sensational  peculation,  only 
sufficient  to  keep  pace  with  his  expenditures,  which  were 
in  excess  of  his  income.  Fearing  that  his  offense  would 
be  made  public  when  the  bank's  affairs  were  overhauled, 
he  fled.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  I  extracted  from  him 
yesterday  afternoon  a  confession  of  his  reason  for  leav 
ing  Raymond. 


342  UNDER  THREE  FLAGS. 

"As  to  the  locket  supposed  to  have  been  removed  from 
Hathaway's  watch  chain  the  night  of  the  tragedy,  and 
which  Mr.  Ashley  picked  up  a  few  nights  ago,  I  supposed 
until  yesterday  that  it  had  been  dropped  by  Ralph  Felton. 
But  it  seems  that  it  was  torn  from  Mr.  Ames'  neck  when 
Felton  hurled  himself  upon  him  on  that  memorable  even 
ing  at  Jibana.  Mr.  Hathaway  had  detached  it  from  his 
chain  the  morning  of  Memorial  Day,  as  the  spring  was 
broken,  and  had  given  it  to  Helen  to  convey  to  the  jew 
eler's  to  be  repaired.  It  left  Raymond  with  her,  and  when 
she  and  her  husband  took  up  their  Cuban  life  the  minia 
ture  of  the  younger  sister  was  removed,  for  obvious 
reasons,  and  Mr.  Ames  wore  the  locket  about  his  neck, 
attached  to  a  long  gold  chain/' 

Another  silence,  which  this  time  Van  Zandt  breaks. 

"Now  that  the  facts  in  the  case  are  in  your  possession, 
Mr.  Barker,  I  presume  you  will  feel  it  your  duty  to  report 
them  to  the  proper  authorities." 

The  detective  does  not  reply.  He  glances  curiously  at 
Ashley,  and  the  latter  passes  over  a  cigar,  which  the 
detective  bites  in  meditative  fashion. 

"And  you?"  Van  Zandt  queries,  turning  to  Ashley. 

"It  would  make  a  capital  story/'  drawls  Jack,  who 
has  already  told  himself  that  the  big  bunch  of  "copy"  in 
the  pigeonhole  of  his  desk  in  the  Hemisphere  office  will 
never  greet  a  compositor's  eye. 

"No  doubt,"  says  Van  Zandt,  gravely.  "But,  like  many 
capital  stories,  it  would  be  a  source  of  endless  pain  to 
two  estimable  young  ladies.  It  would  render  nil  the 
sacrifice  which  Roger  Hathaway  made  to  preserve  his 
family  name  from  disgrace,  and  would  make  a  hollow 
mockery  of  the  simple  epitaph  which  you  tell  me  marks 
the  marble  shaft  above  his  grave — 'Faithful  Unto 
Death/  " 

The  detective  lights  his  cigar. 

"Is  there  any  likelihood,  Mr.  Barker,  of  the  state  of 
Vermont  paying  the  $1,000  reward  which  was  offered?" 
continues  Van  Zandt. 

"None,"  replies  Barker.  "The  reward  was  for  the 
arrest  and  conviction  of  Roger  Hathaway's  murderer." 


"WRITTEN    BY   THE    HAND   OP   FATE."  343 

"And  the  additional  $4,000  offered  by  the  bank?" 

Barker  smiles  sardonically. 

Van  Zandt  takes  from  his  pocket  a  folded  slip  of  paper 
and  passes  it  across  the  table  to  the  detective. 

"There  is  a  check  for  $5,000,"  he  says.  "It  is  not  a 
bribe.  It  is  only  your  just  dues  for  the  labors  that  you 
have  expended  on  the  case.  Personally,  I  am  under  deep 
obligations  to  you.  As  to  whether  the  Raymond  mystery 
shall  remain  a  mystery,  I  leave  it  to  your  own  sense  of 
duty." 

Barker  folds  the  check  slowly,  and,  as  he  slips  it  into 
his  vest  pocket,  he  remarks,  with  a  glance  toward  Ashley : 

"If  my  partner  consents,  the  Hathaway  case  may  as 
well  remain  as  now  fixed  in  the  coroner's  records  in 
Raymond,  Vermont." 

"Your  partner  came  to  that  decision  some  time  ago," 
is  Ashley's  quiet  response. 

"Thank  you,  gentlemen,"  says  Van  Zandt,  as  he  rises. 
"And  now,  my  friends,  suppose  we  rejoin  the  ladies. 
They  will  begin  to  think  that  we  have  deserted  them." 


THE  END. 


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